


SASO BR4 Dump

by stephanericher



Series: SASO 17 [20]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: F/F, F/M, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gen, M/M, Other, Selfcest, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-17 16:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 185
Words: 77,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13080789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: all the sfw knb stuff i wrote for saso br4





	1. imahana, you think you know

Imayoshi thinks he knows so much about Hanamiya; he thinks that with one glance (closed eyes, crooked glasses) he can analyze everything, know Hanamiya’s entire life. He thinks he’s got Hanamiya all figured out, the fuckface, just because they’d spent time together in middle school and he’d seen Hanamiya suck up to people. Yeah, it’s not fun and feels fucking stupid, but Hanamiya’s mother’s drilled into his head that it’s not what you know; it’s who you know. Imayoshi’s smart. He should have figured that out by now.  
  
But since he hasn’t, there’s no way in hell Hanamiya’s going to tell him. Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer; don’t give up all of your secrets even though this isn’t much of one. That’s why Imayoshi goes to a school like Touou, where he can lead the team to grueling championships, and Hanamiya goes to Kirisaki Daiichi, where he can start fresh, no scheming upperclassmen trying to knock him down. He can be captain; he can be coach; he can be whatever the hell he wants.   
  
“You don’t fucking know me at all,” Hanamiya says, through gritted teeth.  
  
It’s been Touou’s victory over Kirisaki Daiichi, if you only look at the scoresheet. Hanamiya’s had his targets, and Imayoshi’s not among them. Why injure him, when he’s the one who has to figure out what to do when his strongest links are eliminated? Why take him out, when the fun and satisfaction of even a partial victory over him would be lost? Touou’s so fucking boring, even with Imayoshi.  
  
“Don’t I?” says Imayoshi, his lips twisting like a mocking smile.   
  
Hanamiya sneers. Like hell he does. What an asshole, what a horrible personality, what a piece of shit, walking around like he owns everything, like he knows everything, like anything’s been through has been at all comparable to Hanamiya pushing and pulling himself into spaces where he won’t fit. Teachers don't like him; coaches don’t like him; he’s had to fake a personality or fight his way on for everything, but Imayoshi’s stupid smiles are just—ugh.  
  
“I was sure I did,” says Imayoshi, quietly, as their lips meet.  
  
Hanamiya makes a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, but it’s swallowed up by Imayoshi and his stupid kiss, his stupid mouth, still smiling. His eyes are still closed; his teeth scrape against Hanamiya’s and goddamn. Imayoshi won’t admit he’s wrong, but Hanamiya’s going to make sure he does.


	2. takamido, it bothers you

  
Takao sighs; Midorima looks at him, as if questioning what he means. Midorima’s absolute shit at reading people, but by this point Takao would hope they’ve reached a point where Midorima’s better with him, but whatever. Midorima can see some stuff, though, like the jealousy and anger radiating off opposing players when he goes another game with a perfect field goal percentage, when he makes all of his free throws and the ball tracks higher and higher into the air. And that much bothers him, though he doesn’t talk about it, the discouraged looks on their faces and the way they say his name like it’s a forbidden word, as if saying it would make them even worse in comparison.  
  
“It bothers you, how perfect you are,” says Takao.  
  
“Well,” says Midorima, after a pause in which he pushes up his glasses, already at the top of his nose. “Putting it that way—yes.”  
  
“They’re jealous,” says Takao. “They should be. Yeah, not everyone’s talented, but they could stand to work harder, and you can still enjoy yourself—well, that’s being kind of facetious.”  
  
“I’d say hypocritical,” says Midorima. “As I recall, you don’t remember losing to me in middle school all that fondly.”  
  
Takao makes a face. “That was different.”  
  
“Was it?” says Midorima.  
  
“Anyway,” says Takao. “Slow down; your legs are too long.”  
  
“Are you complimenting me for any particular reason?” says Midorima.  
  
“No,” says Takao. “But you deserve it. People take you for granted.”  
  
“Thank you, then,” says Midorima, slowing down his pace just a touch.  
  
Takao thinks about grabbing his hand; they’re getting toward a more crowded part of the city though that’s the flimsiest excuse in the world, and Takao can make his way just fine on his own. He wants to kiss Midorima’s stupid, pretty, conceited, perfect face all over until Midorima’s more than had enough; he wants to let him know that yeah, that middle school loss had been disheartening at first but it had made him want to practice, be better.  
  
“Why does it bother you, anyway?” says Takao.  
  
“I don’t know,” says Midorima. “It’s just—I’d rather have them just play. Appreciate or hate what I do afterwards, not pulling everything into the middle of the game.”  
  
“That’s hypocritical of you,” says Takao, because, well, Rakuzan.  
  
“I suppose,” says Midorima.  
  
“Well,” says Takao. “You don’t need to hear it again, but you’re perfect, Shin-chan.”  
  
His fingers brush Midorima’s; Midorima almost smiles. “Thank you.”


	3. imahana, people die if they're killed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vidya violence, makoto-typical violence

“What the fucking fuck? I’m gonna. What the fuck?”  
  
Imayoshi leans back, the controller practically draping from his fingers, lazy smug smirk on his face. “Looks like you just got killed.”  
  
“Which you could have fucking prevented; we’re on the same campaign!”  
  
“Well, you kept saying that you had it all under control, and I trust you.” A couple of enemy fighters swarm the screen; Imayoshi guns them down, still looking at Hanamiya’s face.   
  
“Ugh. I did, but then that fucker Miyu-Miyu-boy—”  
  
“I’m still on the headset, asshole,” says Miyu-Miyu-boy or whatever he’d changed his name to this time. “It’s not my fault I died; you were supposed to cover me.”  
  
Hanamiya pulls off the headset and slams it to the ground. “You could have had me and killed all those other guys.”  
  
“Relax,” says Imayoshi. “People die if they’re killed, but then they respawn.”  
  
Hanamiya gives him the finger. Respawning takes for fucking ever in this game (and these are avatars, not actual people); sure enough Miyu-Miyu-boy’s avatar is finally starting to fade in on the bottom left of the screen; another teammate’s elf girl is almost there. And now they’re going to have a few minutes where they’ll probably win and grab all the experience points before Hanamiya respawns, the bastards.   
  
“I’ll buy you some premium currency,” says Imayoshi, kissing Hanamiya’s forehead like he’s some fucking kid who needs to be placated.   
  
“Break up the lovefest,” says the elf girl. “Incoming artillery.”  
  
Imayoshi fights them off one-handed (what a fucking showoff); his other arm drops around Hanamiya’s shoulders and pulls him closer. Hanamiya scowls at the TV screen; all he wanted to do was play some video games with his boyfriend, not have to wait for fucking ever to respawn.   
  
“Hey—” Imayoshi starts.  
  
“Can it,” says Hanamiya.  
  
Imayoshi sighs, as if Hanamiya’s the one being difficult right now. The controller vibrates in Hanamiya’s hand; his all-of-a-sudden respawned character has just been hit again, straight in the chest, critical one-hit knockout.  
  
“What the fuck? You asshole, I told you last time you should have had me covered!”  
  
“I was about to say something,” says Imayoshi. “But you cut me off. Better pay attention.”  
  
Hanamiya turns around, trying to hit Imayoshi in the head with the stupid controller; Imayoshi ducks and the controller slips, flying behind him to smack the couch cushion and fall to the floor with a loud smack. Imayoshi sighs.  
  
“I hope it’s not broken.”


	4. akamayu (past akakuro), every bad end

Every bad ending is a learning opportunity, an opportunity to start anew and fresh with no mistakes. That’s conventional wisdom, but before Kuroko Akashi makes no mistakes (none, at least, that are not small enough to cover up quickly, and if no one sees them they’re not real mistakes). Rakuzan feels like an opportunity, to win at the high school level with a different group of talented individuals, ones who are already used to finding room for all three of them in the hierarchy, elbowing each other aside or holding each other up. It’s no less of a challenge, but it’s one less thing to worry about when it comes to the missing piece.  
  
There’s no missing piece to Akashi; the thought that when those he cares for leave him they take some of him is foolish. He is not the same person, but he has not given them any of himself (as much as they have tried to take). The next will be no different; the next will want to take, try to take, fixate himself around Akashi the way Kuroko had not (always reaching for a brighter flameout, always reaching for something beyond himself). There’s a line between that and satisfaction with one’s own lot, and, well, Mayuzumi Chihiro treads it already.  
  
It’s simple, to form on him who has no form, tar and feathers and shadow, shadow which is still not a concrete form but more like water, fitting to the shape of its container. This container is that of Akashi’s companion, not slavishly devoted, not made entirely in Kuroko’s image, but taking the good parts of him, the things Akashi wants back. The dispassionate glances, stuck onto his face, the want pushed into him, from the tips of Akashi’s fingers. Want, greed, but not too much, not so much it veers into entitlement and self-righteousness and easy grief.   
  
Mayuzumi, New Mayuzumi, is better. He stands out even less than Old Mayuzumi, ordinary, plain, nose in a book, had. And he is good at basketball; he can pass and shoot and steal; the best part of his game is not how much he loves it. It’s about how well-trained he already is, fitting into the Rakuzan machine without any need to accommodate him, filling the spaces between the walls and Nebuya’s meaty elbows, Hayama’s foot, Mibuchi’s long fingers, Akashi’s presence. He was created to fill this, and nothing else; he is not expendable; he is the shadow, silhouetted by four candles burning bright.   
  
His kiss is mock-submissive, just the right amount of sarcasm and just the right amount of want, desire, for Akashi—not as a tool, as something tied to basketball. But as Akashi, as he is.


	5. imahana, not in love

“I’m not in love,” Hanamiya says, practically spitting the words.   
  
He hates Imayoshi’s guts; as trite as it is to say that means deep down they love each other it’s not fucking true. So they fool around sometimes, so Imayoshi’s fun to mess with (except when he thinks he can get away with messing with Hanamiya). That’s got nothing to do with love and romance; even if it did if it was them it would be a mockery.  
  
This feeling is like having his throat cut, blood spilling over and choking, the ay Imayoshi looks at him, a nasty smell like his guts being pulled out of him with Imayoshi’s bare hands wrapped in his intestines. There are no roses and chocolates and tender things, spoken lovingly or even sarcastically.   
  
“Of course you’re not,” says Hara. “You just talk about your boyfriend, Imayoshi, all the damn time—”  
  
“Not my boyfriend.”  
  
“And how much you hate him, how he makes you feel things that aren’t the urge to elbow someone in the head,” says Seto. “It’s cute, Makoto; you’re growing up.”  
  
“Shut the hell up. Who says I don’t want to elbow you in the head?”  
  
“Not as much as you want to kiss Imayoshi,” says Hara, and then he starts to make kissy noises.  
  
Why does Hanamiya let these people hang out with him? Basketball, maybe, but even outside of that. His cheeks are getting hotter, but it’s only because he’s angry with Hara for acting like a small child, ten at best. This is not love; this is just amusement and loathing, mixed together all funny, quickly tipping over the way it feels in a flash. Like, again, his throat being slit, the life going out of him (except, maybe, the opposite effect).  
  
“I’m not in love!”  
  
“If you weren’t you wouldn’t talk about it so much,” says Yamazaki.   
  
Furuhashi’s somehow got a hold of Hanamiya’s phone; Hanamiya lunges for it but Furuhashi ducks. “He’s sending you hearts and you haven’t deleted them or given a concussion.”  
  
“Why the fuck do you have my phone?”  
  
“Thought it was mine.”  
  
“You’re reading my text messages!”   
  
“I was going to text myself to find my phone.”  
  
“You have a different brand!”  
  
“That’s off-topic,” says Hara. “Just admit it Hanamiya, you love your boyfriend so much; you want to hug him and kiss him and marry him and make love—”  
  
Hanamiya pushes him off the bleachers; Hara smirks all the way down.


	6. imahana, you're going to regret something

You’re going to regret something, Imayoshi reckons. Like his parents regret not doing the expansion on the house while they'd still had the money, before they’d squandered it lending to Imayoshi’s wasteful aunt because they’d had no excuse not to and she’s family. His mother regrets getting stuck at a shitty job; his father regrets not making the right investments; Imayoshi’s heard it’s better to regret things you’ve done rather than the things you haven’t. As a child he’d wondered if it wasn’t better to have no regrets at all. How fucking naive of him, but then, there’s only one way to really learn.  
  
Perhaps it’s better to have the right regrets, a set of things that had turned out all right or the best they could despite the wrong choices. That’s a little bit too optimistic, though; it’s closer to truth to say that life goes and flows, and you’ll be stuck somewhere. IT’s better not to think about the rocks that had shredded you a kilometer or so back because you’ve got to make it through the white water up ahead.   
  
Or maybe Imayoshi’s just saying that to make himself feel better, because his eyesight sucks and his foresight’s not much better, and even if he could go back and do it all again there’s no way things would have worked out with Hanamiya. He’d wanted too much, thought he could have the universe, gently correct Hanamiya’s actions, move him away from the path he’d been walking, the horrible thing he’d been trending toward. Imayoshi would be a shitty moral guardian now; he’s no saint—and if anyone’s playing devil’s advocate (a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously close to Susa’s) they’d ask him if Hanamiya was not the better of the two of them, since Imayoshi’s trying and wanting something that will never be. But back then, he’d been a worse choice; he’d assumed Hanamiya wouldn’t guess what he was doing, wouldn’t dump him and tell him it’s not his job to be a self-righteous asshole and that Hanamiya could find his own way, thanks very much (and that he was a better basketball player, which even then had already been true).  
  
He doesn’t regret wasting his energy on an attempt, but he’s not sure if he hadn’t tried he’d regret not doing it. Maybe there’s no right choice; maybe this is a video game with no good end, or at least he’d split off the best path too far long ago to figure out when. But either way, wherever the two of them are, even if they never reconcile any of this, life will continue, the plans for the addition to the house swept away, the bank account balance in reality becoming what Imayoshi’s used to seeing, even if he’d rather it were a little higher.


	7. imahana, habitual liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> violence

Makoto’s a liar, habitual, impulsive; it had taken Shouchi longer than usual to figure out when he’s lying and when he’s not, or when he believes what he’s saying even if it’s not necessarily true (like the hatred and loathing he claims to have for Shouchi; Makoto’s a decent liar but he’s best at fooling himself, the way his eyes follow Shouchi on the court and the way he waits to talk to him betraying the—not necessarily admiration, but something like that, deep inside). Sometimes Shouchi calls him on that shit; sometimes he’s too tired of it; even if these aren’t battles anyone wins he’s got to pick them (and it’s funny how carefully Makoto sees him choosing them, when really it’s when he feels like it, when he thinks he can get to Makoto a little more than usual, nothing more than that).   
  
Makoto’s a liar; he’s got a hell of a lot more than two faces, one for every person he’s with, juggled seamlessly as if he’s showing off his intellectual prowess (as if he needs to, but Makoto wouldn’t be himself if he weren’t a showboat). He’ll fuck you up, pretend to be someone he’s not, but if you look closely enough you can see him before he stabs someone else in the back, gets them pushed out like everyone on the basketball team, like the old coach, like the teachers who for some reason unknown to them dislike him (he makes them uneasy, but they say he seems like a good kid).   
  
He’s worse by high school, whirling around and striking people in the head, knee, chest, shoulder, taking them down like a system, like a catalogue full of check-marks, one by one, his five little accomplices standing behind him. Shouchi's smart enough to know that Makoto’s not pulling the strings completely; they listen and respect him but they’re their own kinds of agents of chaos and violence, the difference in a game.  
  
Somehow, Harasawa ropes the Touou kids into an exhibition after the season, the group of them, now captained by Shouichi, against the group of kids led in every sense by Makoto. Shouichi starts out wary, but Makoto seems as if he’s still pretending to hate Shouichi, muttering things under his breath.  
  
Shouchi can see him coming but he can’t stop it, the crack of his ankle against Makoto’s foot, the way Makoto stares him in the eyes. He falls to the floor; the pain is sharp and it’s probably a sprain, only a few weeks, maybe—but Makoto’s smirking.   
  
“I’m honored you respect me so much.”  
  
The smile turns into a scowl, and then the fakest look of concern Shouichi’s ever seen as the ref rushes over.   
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“I’m good,” says Imayoshi. “I’m pretty good.”


	8. akamido, the first time

The first time Akashi sees him, he’s by himself, a basketball in his hands. He’s taller than most of the other first-years, bright green hair and glasses, steel in the way he holds his face, soft cheeks and big eyes and all.   
  
“Shoot,” says the coach, and Midorima does, a beautiful arc—something that Akashi knows, by intuition, will become something greater than this already-nearly-perfect thing, falling through the hoop and catching none of the hoop or backboard. Again and again he shoots the ball, different spots on the court, the same motion every time, the same way it falls through the hoop. This, this boy, determined and quiet, sparks something inside of Akashi that nothing else has.  
  
That nothing else does. Akashi begins to time the drive to school so that he enters through the gates the same time as Midorima, so that he can look up at those pleasant, pretty features and talk about basketball, or Midorima’s other interests (shogi, music, or the large objects he carries around, apparently astrology—everyone’s entitled to their quirks, and on Midorima this is a little bit cute). Maybe, Akashi thinks, this is love, or something like it, its predecessor, the thing that will, as they keep going, beget love if they stay entwined.  
  
On the court, he trusts Midorima the most; his shots are the surest and his determination the fiercest, his adherence to his own code the strongest. Aomine is wild; Murasakibara pretends not to care; Haizaki might actually not care. Midorima accepts the challenge, the honor, for what it is, and Akashi loves him even more for it.   
  
“Midorima, do you think,” Akashi starts, and then stops.  
  
Midorima waits, eyes wide, eyelashes so thick they cast shadows on his cheeks under the fluorescent lights and the magnification of his glasses. Akashi does not get nervous; Midorima’s affections in return are clearer than a freshly-dusted chandelier.  
  
“Do you think you would like to go out with me?”  
  
Midorima’s mouth falls open; his tongue is so pretty. Midorima nods, rapid; his bangs swing over his face (they’re getting a little long, maybe; still they’re beautiful as they are).  
  
Akashi’s never kissed anyone before; Midorima doesn’t have the same kind of confidence here as he does in his basketball. But he wants, and Akashi wants, too; he can’t get enough of this. And even for him, the future isn’t definite, but Akashi can’t see ever not wanting this, ever not wanting Midorima.


	9. aokuro, deal with the devil

Sometimes, Aomine thinks he’d give his soul—what’s left of it, anyway, whatever the fuck it’s worth, screwed-up and twisted and full of regret and an ocean of turmoil, hurricanes within hurricanes—just to have any of it back. By any of it, he means Kuroko, of course, because that’s the only thing that matters, the thing that’s tied up in everything else. Basketball, team, connection, none of that matters without Kuroko; none of that’s worth shit if Kuroko doesn’t want him.  
  
Okay, Aomine knows that’s not true; he’s being melodramatic about a subject that’s already halfway to melodrama without any of that, but still. If he’s got a soul (maybe he’d already sold it, even younger and stupider than he had been when he’d said all that shit to Kuroko when he had) he’d give it all up, become some kind of hollower entity, just to get Kuroko back, just to have a little longer with him, to go back and be forced to go through Teikou all over again, the endless fire and pouring rain, cold, colder, coldest, if he could hold it off to tell Kuroko how much he’d meant to him, even if it’s pushing him away.  
  
There's no end in sight to this bullshit, no cure; he’s doomed to be this shitty forever, alone with basketball, with Kuroko unreachable, across a chasm, behind an unbreakable glass wall that Kuroko can’t hear Aomine through.  
  
It’s like that until it isn’t, anyway, until Kagami fucking falls through the glass on his own, pushed by Kuroko in an effort, something that says he wants to reach Aomine, too, bitter and miserable jerkass that he’s become. something that says he may not want Aomine back but he wants that possibility, and maybe Aomine’s deluding himself but if it helps him get somewhere what the hell’s wrong with that?  
  
And then Kuroko’s standing, reachable; he’s too fucking stubborn and grudging to make the first move, but Aomine’s not too proud to reach out, to wait for Kuroko to take his hand held steady.  
  
“I’d have made a deal with the devil to get you back,” Aomine says later.  
  
“I hope you didn’t sign anything,” says Kuroko. “But wasn’t it easier this way?”  
  
Aomine doesn’t know about easy, but he’s glad anyway; it’s more than he ever could have hoped for, everything he was afraid to admit he’d really wanted, better than anything the devil could have given him.


	10. aokuro, like lightning

Falling in love is simple, easy; it happens like lightning, quick and out of nowhere. Dealing with the fallout isn’t easy, at least not if you’re Aomine, loving Kuroko, but he can push it aside. He can pretend that they live in a world where it’s fine to fall in love with another guy who plays basketball for another school, maybe not pretend too hard and think about futures, government-sanctioned domestic partnerships, marriages, family registries. That stuff’s ugly and big and legal, a roadblock that doesn’t stand in the way of the two of them existing, being, living together right now—but it’s something Kuroko begins to extract himself from and Aomine can’t entirely blame him.  
  
Who wants to be with someone who’s going to bolt for a job playing basketball overseas as soon as he can, a country where this stuff is legal but not necessarily accepted, not among professional athletes? Aomine can say he doesn’t give a shit what people think of him, and to a large extent that’s true, but not entirely. And it doesn’t mean Kuroko doesn’t care what people think of him, that Kuroko wouldn’t mind, that Kuroko, eager to take blame and credit, would internalize anything that might happen to Aomine.   
  
It’s lose-lose, a hopeless love, reciprocated but not to the extent where they’re both willing to conquer everything, where they both have enough faith, hope, strength, to make it conquer everything, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, something that eats itself, a stupid insect that can’t feel any pain chomping on its own tail.   
  
Falling in love is easy; it happens so quickly without trying. Falling out of love, though, is hard; even deliberately they can't extract themselves from this; even when Kuroko’s trying to martyr himself it’s hard for him. It’s hard to give up what now is so precious, so beautiful, so rare; they know it’s going to end sooner or later but neither of them can bring themselves to pull the trigger. They’re both fucking cowards; they’re both afraid to show the world, afraid to hide it; they love each other too much to let go, too much to keep going, not enough but too much to fall out of love, fold it up like a card table and tuck it under their arms and go.   
  
If only it were easy; if only this were a hopeful kind of love; if only some part of it was simple and soft, easy to dig their fingers into, something they shouldn’t let go of. But if wishes were worth anything, they’d be rich already.


	11. imahana, the innocent are marvelous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imagery gets kinda squicky/graphic

The innocent are marvelous, Makoto thinks. It’s so easy to bend them to his will, to fool them into thinking he’s a perfect little angel, a nice boy, a dutiful son. He barely had to wiggle his fingers to get out what he wants, a recommendation for a prestigious program, all the playing time he wants and almost as much as he knows what to do with, control over most of the basketball team.   
  
Except Imayoshi. He is not naive, not innocent, recognizes talent and cunning where he sees it because he’s got some of his own. Not enough to be a threat, but more than enough to be a pest, a mosquito buzzing in the air around Makoto’s head, too far away to squish, Makoto clapping his hands loudly and ending up with attention on him and a quiet mosquito not squished disgustingly between his palms (but he feels as if he should wash the dirt off anyway). Imayoshi is the opposite of marvelous; he’s horrible; he makes things a little more challenging but not in a pleasant way. It would be better if he were an opponent, analyzing behind those nerdy glasses of his, saying shitty things that Makoto can explain away as due to jealousy. Then, Makoto could take pleasure into smashing an elbow into his face, breaking those stupid glasses, breaking in his nose, hearing the rip of the cartilage. Satisfaction.  
  
Pushing Imayoshi away from this angle is hard; he’s too close in like some guy guarding him, stupidly unafraid, but Makoto can’t figure out how to get away, how to hold him at a length far away enough to do anything about him. He’s fucking annoying; it’s not as if Makoto can fake the foul and get the call, take the two frees and make them, and even if he does it’s because Imayoshi’s letting him (as if Makoto needs any help from that guy).  
  
The worst part is when he acts like their pals, breathing on Makoto’s ear, lowering his voice like he’s trying to flirt. As if Makoto would fall for someone like that, as if Makoto would fall for anyone at all. Please. Middle school so-called romance is so trite.  
  
Makoto repeats those words in his head, a mantra as Imayoshi kisses him, lips a dissonant non-slimy texture, mouth wet and hot. This is stupid, but maybe this is the area in which Imayoshi’s naive enough to think something stupid, like that Makoto might fall for him despite his better judgement.


	12. akamido, don't you miss it

“Don’t you miss Tokyo?”  
  
“Hmm,” says Akashi.  
  
It’s contemplative, though he’s doubtless already made up his mind, made his own feelings known to himself, because he’s Akashi and that’s how he thinks. Kyoto is nice, old-fashioned, in some ways suited to Akashi, who looks as good in a basketball uniform, in a suit, as he does with his feet in geta, draped over a shogi table in the park, old architecture in the background. Midorima could never live in a place like this; it’s a lovely city but he needs the particular lights and sounds to fall asleep; his routine is so firmly entrenched in Tokyo that if he ever moves away—well, adjustments are always hard, but this would be harder.  
  
“There are people there I miss,” says Akashi, turning toward the pond.  
  
Autumn leaves, rich red-green-browns, are floating across it, skimming the surface on the wind, curled dry into little boats. Midorima swallows; he thinks—hopes—Akashi means him.  
  
“A certain someone,” says Akashi, placing his hand on Midorima’s upper arm, sliding over Midorima’s bicep.  
  
Midorima swallows again. “Oh.”  
  
“But, the city itself, not really,” says Akashi, his fingers dropping down to entwine with Midorima’s, nails scraping over the fresh bandages. “It’s home, but here is home too. I used to come to the family house here every summer, when I was very small. I don’t remember it all too well, and maybe it’s just false nostalgia.”  
  
“So all your memories here are good?”  
  
“As a net result, I suppose. Though, Tokyo…”  
  
Basketball victories, Teikou, perhaps their first kiss. Memories that are vivid and full to Midorima, perhaps embellished by his imagination with a few years’ distance, but held close and careful all the same, even among the bad memories, Akashi playing against Murasakibara, losing in the Winter Cup, difficulties at Shutoku—those are all eclipsed right now, by Akashi, here, standing in front of him. But this isn’t Tokyo, though perhaps Midorima’s memories are less categorized, by place or by other means, than Akashi.  
  
“I hope you’re not overthinking it, Shintarou.”  
  
“I probably am.”  
  
Akashi turns toward him, away from the water, smiling. A red eclipse, a blood moon, Midorima thinks. And then Akashi pulls him down into a kiss, soft and full, blanking his thoughts, clearing the overclocked, overthought concepts and metaphors and ideas strung together like lights on a wire. All Midorima’s thinking of is Akashi, here, now, longer, the future, the two of them. Anywhere.


	13. akakuro, jammed gearteeth

They had both injected poison into their relationship, careful like scientists at first, pumping it through their veins as if to color proteins, diagnose a problem. Of course, that phase had really only lasted a brief period, until carefully-disguised animosity had turned into all-out disgust, dislike. On top of the attraction, messy like oil and water, the wrong things to mix, the things they could not make work. IT had not exploded; things between the two of them do not explode, because it’s them, even at their wildest they are too restrained, too good at containment to let something like that occur.   
  
They go their separate ways, and meet again. Kuroko forgives Akashi, in a way that seems a little bit self-serving, something he sees as himself giving a generous gift. He’s forgiven himself already, something that has indeed unburdened him. Perhaps that is why he wins, because he can forgive, as cruelly as he does. It’s maybe out of some bitter resentment for Kuroko’s attitude that Akashi lets himself keep a grudge. Maybe it’s in his blood, some ancestral survival tactic. He’s forgiven himself, mostly, for screwing up. He’s forgiven Kuroko for doing the things he'd done, equally misguided. But, hypocritically, vengefully, Akashi thinks that he didn’t have to be such a dick about it.  
  
He doesn’t mean to forgive Kuroko when he does, but forgiveness is a feeling, a release you can’t force, loosened by the erosion of time, the flare of attraction once more. It’s in conflict with his bitterness, but not in the same way as it had been, not in the way it had made every kiss feel like Akashi’s entire face hurt, an allergic reaction (an overreaction, they were so young; they still are so young). The attraction washes away the adhesive that sticks the grudge, soothes the wound in Akashi’s mind; he can let go of this on the way to something more. It’s not a return; its not a regression; it’s forward progress, watching the burden of anger wash away until it passes the horizon, out to sea, gone.  
  
Neither of them has stated their forgiveness in so many words. Kuroko has never acted like Akashi’s forgiveness was necessary for him (another thing that had made letting go a little bit easier, a little bit harder at once). Their shoulders are lighter than ever now; they fit together better, like their jammed uneven gear teeth have been filed down to something congruous.


	14. imahana, epistolary

Makoto,  
  
My dear, my one and only. We’re out of cereal. Please pick some up when you’re on your way back from work.   
  
Yours,  
  
Shouichi xx  
  
(“So you admit you’re mine?”  
  
“I don’t reckon that was much of a secret,” says Shouichi.  
  
“Leave me the last bit of cereal next time, asshole,” says Makoto—his cheeks, Shouichi notes delightedly, are turning a lovely shade of bright red.  
  
“And let me starve?"  
  
“You can buy something at the convenience store. I’ll fucking pay you back if you’re too cheap.”  
  
“Romantic.”  
  
“Shut up.”)  
  
Shouichi,  
  
Stop leaving your damn phone in the bedroom. How else am I supposed to get hold of you when you’re at work? Act like a responsible adult.  
  
(“If you don’t sign your letters, how am I supposed to know it’s you?” says Shouichi.  
  
“Does anyone else live here?”  
  
“Could be Koko-chan.”  
  
“Don’t call the cat dumb names,” says Makoto. “Cats can’t write.”  
  
“Who’s a clever girl?" says Shouichi, staring at the black cat winding her way around the bottom of the chair; she looks quite unimpressed at Shouichi not giving her any food, but that’s cats, just like Makoto, always ungrateful.   
  
“Take your damn phone with you,” says Makoto. “Then I won’t write notes you complain about. We’re living in the twenty-first century, old man.”)  
  
Makoto,  
  
I could text you but it seems I’ve forgotten my phone at work again, and I don’t want to wake you up. You look very cute when you’re sleeping, and you don’t get enough of it. I’ll make dinner tonight, so there’s no need to buy anything.  
  
Always thinking of you.  
  
Your Shouichi  
  
( _I’ll buy you a fucking wallet chain if it’ll keep your phone attached,_ Makoto texts almost as soon as Shouichi arrives at work.  
  
 _Swearing is vulgar, Makoto._  
  
 _You’re plenty vulgar._  
  
 _During work hours? Oh, my._  
  
Makoto doesn’t text back after that, although it’s just as well. Shouichi’s got a lot of work to do, and as fun as silly love notes to Makoto can be, they're a bit of a distraction when he’s doing his job. He still hasn’t decided on dinner, and when he gets a bit of free time he thinks about Makoto rather than about that. There are so many ways he can flatter Makoto and make him blush and push back, pretend so badly to be annoyed. This little game of theirs is silly, but it’s no sillier than the notes themselves.)


	15. akamido, majesty

“Your Majesty,” Midorima murmurs, bending over to brush his lips across the back of Akashi’s knuckles.  
  
Akashi lets him linger before lifting Midorima’s chin, staring into his eyes, and then nodding, a silent bid for Midorima to rise, as Akashi sits, straight, upright, commanding, on his throne.   
  
“Sir Midorima,” says Akashi. “You’ve been away a very long time.”  
  
“Indeed, as short as my duties as your vassal would permit.”  
  
“Quite,” says Akashi. “I hope you are not feeling overburdened?”  
  
“Of course not, Your Majesty.”  
  
Akashi smiles; all of Midorima’s answers are as he expects and Midorima takes great care not to smile back. Not that Akashi does not bit him to smile, when they are alone; here they are in front of servants, courtiers, people who know them only as lord and vassal, king and champion.   
  
“I look forward to hearing your report in detail,” says Akashi, nodding in dismissal.  
  
*  
  
The summer palace is large, wide; its grounds are full of vegetation, carefully cultivated; Akashi’s own herd of strong white horses is lodged in the stable, a few foals trailing behind their parents as they are let out in the wide pasture. Midorima’s own horse, a mild-mannered grey, is housed in the auxiliary stable, well away from the king’s herd. As it should be. Here, unlike the smaller, warmer winter palace, there is nothing but distance, the promise of a meeting but Akashi’s other priorities getting in the way, as usual. Midorima cannot begrudge his king this; the business he’d been sent on had not been urgent.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
Akashi steps onto the balcony, flanked by a nobleman; he gives him a pointed glance and the nobleman slides back through the door. “I know this is not ideal for a report deposition, but we’ll have that later. How do my subjects view me?”  
  
“Quite well,” says Midorima. “They admire your rule, your steady hand of justice, your tax brackets.”  
  
It’s not meant to come out snappy; Akashi knows this but he smiles briefly. “And you? What do you think?”  
  
He’s stepped closer, face beautiful in the light.  
  
“I,” says Midorima. “I approve. Though perhaps, if I were selfish enough to ask—”  
  
“We’ll get more time together,” says Akashi. “I promise.”  
  
He seals the promise with a kiss, his mouth royal, of the kingdom, but earthly, real, of Akashi the man as well as Akashi the monarch. That is more than Midorima could ask for, even at his greediest, but all of what he wants.


	16. akamido, forgiven

It’s not his fault; Midorima’s heard that from everyone. It's come from Takao, who hasn’t heard the whole story, Kuroko, who wants to hoard the blame for himself, Murasakibara, phrased differently. It's come from Akashi, abrupt but sincere, in a way that makes Midorima hurt and angry all over again, and then he feels guilty for all of that, emotions cascading down his back in a spasm. Teikou isn’t his fault; the collapse isn’t his fault; it’s not his fault he couldn’t bring Akashi back to the way he used to be.   
  
It still feels like it, a faultine in his own expected perfection, something that’s tripping him up on a wire, preventing him from moving further ahead. He couldn’t; he can’t. He can’t forgive himself for that, for not being absolutely competent (and it’s not for once, it’s for all the many things along the way).   
  
At least Akashi gets it; he stops saying it. There is a part of him that blames himself, too, that Midorima can see sometimes. Some of it was his fault; it’s not as if Midorima holds all this bitterness against himself and none against Akashi for not being the captain he had been earlier, for falling apart under something no one should have to withstand. It’s stupid; it’s easy to let go when he sees Akashi holding it against himself, something that’s so logically untrue, unsound. He can’t add to the burden of the grudge Akashi’s already got with himself, and so he doesn’t; he lets it fall away.   
  
Akashi has forgiven him, too, in the same way; they had held each other in mixed regards, mixed feelings, mutual blame. Akashi forgiving him will not make Midorima forgive himself any faster, but it will make him want to try, make him want to hurry up and put all of this in the past. Because an Akashi who does not blame him, who holds out a hand, a forgiveness, who digs a grave for the axe and the sword, is an Akashi Midorima wants to please, all over again, just the way things were once upon a time. Things are different now, yes, for each of them, for the two of them, but it’s a bright future ahead, one that glares off of Midorima’s glasses, one they can head toward, hand in hand, on the way to something if not totally healed then close enough to it that they’ll close the gap.


	17. imahana, monster of his own kind

Once, Imayoshi had been naive enough to suggest that Hanamiya was his shadow. Not to his face; he enjoys getting Hanamiya twisted but not about something he feels so serious about, not about something that maybe isn’t serious—but. Hanamiya follows him, listens when he says he doesn’t, takes note of Imayoshi’s passing, his leadership style. He’s quieter than most people (Imayoshi included sometimes) give him credit for when he wants to be; he knows how to observe, how to synthesize.  
  
It’s probably better Imayoshi had said nothing, because Hanamiya’s not so much a shadow when he steps out himself. Imayoshi’s keeping an eye on the middle school championships for Touou; he and Susa as the best freshmen are sent out to do the gruntwork to prove themselves for next year; Susa spots a cranky-looking forward who’s got a lot of heart and endurance, and that should be good. Imayoshi’s not here for business, though; they have enough guards for now (not that they couldn’t use someone like Hanamiya) and Hanamiya’s probably committed elsewhere.   
  
He is a monster of his own kind, perhaps taking inspiration from Imayoshi somewhere, but it’s hidden behind abstractions, punches that are no longer pulled at all except in the name of psyching his opponent out. He’s dirty when he doesn’t have to be; victory is just another object. How had Imayoshi left him alone like this? How could he ever have equated the two of them? He’s just a fool, isn’t he?  
  
“That’s your middle school, huh?” says Susa.  
  
Imayoshi nods. Susa says nothing, looks to the team on the court, Hanamiya and four players separate, and then back to Imayoshi.  
  
A true shadow is a third kind of beast, not the trendsetter Imayoshi fancies himself, not the monster who grinds your bones and blushes like Hanamiya. Imayoshi knows this because Hanamiya picks up a real shadow in high school, a playmaker who is functionally useless without him, never on the court without Hanamiya and without the bright lights. Seto Kentarou isn’t as much of a basketball player but a tool, loyal, stuck to Hanamiya’s foot with the glue of physics, in a way Hanamiya never was to Imayoshi, even when he’d played up the role of kouhai to the point where Imayoshi had believed it to an extent. There had been no sense of loyalty with him then, not the way there is now. Imayoshi should have known all along that Hanamiya wouldn’t be satisfied without being the one who casts the light.


	18. imahana, resent

Imayoshi had thought there could be nothing worse than Hanamiya hating him, or Hanamiya thinking he hated him. He had neglected to conceptualize Hanamiya loving him, though, or Hanamiya loving him and thinking he hated him, insults bitten on Imayoshi’s lips when they kiss, Hanamiya rolling over and glaring after sex like that was it? Like he has no use for Imayoshi, like he’s trying to treat Imayoshi like a thing.   
  
He cuddles close when they’re asleep, claims it’s because Imayoshi keeps the damn windows open all the time, and it’s cute shit like this that makes Imayoshi remember why he loves Hanamiya in the first place (if there is indeed a why of love, if it’s not all uncontrollable whim and chemical reactions). But he can love Hanamiya and resent loving him, the same way Hanamiya loves Imayoshi and resents it, smokes indoors just to get Imayoshi mad at him (he’s got a body and a future, and their only ashtray is outside). Imayoshi’s not quite so passive-aggressive about it, though he knows how to be snide; he knows how to counter Hanamiya’s remarks with sharp wit of his own. He doesn’t quite think about sinking sharp knives into Hanamiya; this isn’t that kind of relationship, as much mutual resentment as there is.  
  
It would be better if Hanamiya had just hated Imayoshi, resented staying in his shadow, gotten annoyed with him and stayed that way, let Imayoshi pine on his own for those pale cheeks, the messy dark hair, those ridiculous eyebrows and big brown eyes, the way he tosses a basketball into the hoop, an art Imayoshi’s seen him practice and perfect, but that makes the finished product seem all the better, all the more impressive (if Imayoshi were moved by cute cliche underdog stories, but this isn’t that, the story of a talented boy applying himself and moving forward; that’s not likely to show up in any feel-good TV movie). It would be better if they could stay away from each other, if Hanamiya were truly repelled rather than attracted, if. If things that were not were, instead. It would be better, but loving each other, resenting each other, taking up each other’s spaces, snarling and snapping, is the best they’ve got. And it’s not like Imayoshi’s not to blame for not controlling himself; it’s not like, as things are, he’d have it any other way.


	19. kikuro, you should come back

Kise hasn’t been to Tokyo at all in three years. He can blame his travel schedule and accommodating family members and endorsement obligations all he wants, but he could have made time. A weekend in the summer, one of his sisters’ birthdays, a quick getaway, a commercial shoot over there (despite the international costs). Coming back is strange, not the way it had been in high school when he’d been in the city at least once a week for a game or a shoot or some family thing; he’d left but he hadn’t been too far removed; the city had never changed much before he could see it.  
  
New bars have replaced old barbershop in the neighborhood where his parents live, not the neighborhood Kise grew up in, the one they’d moved to halfway through middle school for a better commute for his dad and lower rent on a smaller apartment now that Kise’s oldest sister had left home. Along the way to the coffee shop, the one Kuroko has assured him is still there, it feels a little disconcerting. Old houses have been refurbished or replaced; street signs have been reinstalled with shinier ones, their stems not bent. Trees are pruned back, and a whole row has been chopped down. The cars that line the streets are newer models, the kind he’s used to seeing in Oakland but not here.   
  
“What’s wrong, Kise-kun?”  
  
Kuroko has a knack for seeing straight through Kise’s smile, maybe because people see straight through him most of the time. Kise shrugs.  
  
“It’s not anything wrong; things are just different.”   
  
His hand finds Kuroko’s knee under the table and he pats it; Kuroko slurps at his decaf vanilla latte. “That’s what happens in cities.”  
  
Kise frowns; he knows; he’s seen the changes slowly before, shifting demographics and new construction, but it’s never been sudden, only when he cares enough to look back. Now he’s looking straight ahead and it’s hitting him in the face, and he doesn’t like it.   
  
“Perhaps you should come back more often.”  
  
“You should come see me, too.”  
  
“I do,” says Kuroko (and he does mean outside of the few times a year their teams face off against each other).  
  
“I know,” says Kise.   
  
“It’s hard,” says Kuroko, a little bit of skepticism in his voice because even though it is hard, there are things a lot harder out there than first-class international flights, being rich enough to rent a room in any hotel until Kuroko gives in and Kise stays with him.


	20. imahana, sweet nothings

Lovely, sweet, darling, wonderful, yes, good, beautiful, gorgeous, handsome, perfect, angel, yes you, of course I mean that, sweet nothings turned to sweet somethings cascading down Imayoshi’s mouth and into Hanamiya’s like a stream of sweet water, a stream Imayoshi doesn’t intend on breaking until he runs out of breath, until his brain is burning with his lungs and he can’t think of anything he hasn’t already said, sarcastic or sincere or somewhere in between. He will, later, when Hanamiya’s lying between the sheets, his hair tangled and matted, sweaty and breathless and still so beautiful like this.   
  
Words can only get them so far, the things they say and the things they don’t, the words Imayoshi pushes through the kiss that Hanamiya can choose to ignore (or pretend to) but never does, accepting sometimes but more often debating, rebutting, resenting the concept of being Imayoshi’s darling boy, as much as he says he wants to cultivate a particular image.  
  
Perhaps it’s the way it seems mocking even though half the time it’s not, Hanamiya seeing the worst in everything; perhaps it’s that he expects, since Imayoshi’s always seen through whatever act Hanamiya’s putting on at the moment, Imayoshi to give him the truth. Somehow, Imayoshi reckons, words like spiteful bastard have a little bit less of a romantic affectation to them. And they wouldn’t get the same rise out of Hanamiya, even if he pretended to enjoy them more, and that’s what Imayoshi’s here for. He wouldn’t want Hanamiya if he were the picture of docile acceptance, if he would just be what he needed to be. People like that are so boring, so predictable. They have their places, their uses; they need to be if only in contrast to the rest; Imayoshi won’t begrudge them that simplicity.   
  
But Hanamiya’s the crashing wave, the slow erosion, the crushed beer can under an expensive boot heel. Those are the things Imayoshi thinks while he whispers the simple things, and slips a few of them in there, too, a simple love poem turned to nonsense. He hears it all in the rhythm of Hanamiya’s breath when he sleeps, the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of the hair that’s fallen over his mouth, the dent of his head on the pillow, the awkward way his elbow’s all twisted and his feet are all tangled up with Imayoshi’s under the blankets.


	21. imahana, tempered expectations

Hanamiya’s always been told to temper his expectations. It’s fine to let the rich kids from better families win; it’s fine if they do. It’s fine if the bigger kids win at basketball; he still has books. It’s fine if he’s second in the class; he doesn’t have to be the best. The people who tell him those things are insecure; they’re the ones trying to justify their own settling for fourth-best. Hanamiya’s not like them; he’s not going to turn out that way.   
  
And then there is Imayoshi, not so perfect, smart enough to get good grades but slacking off in the library, texting inside a textbook; his class rank is unremarkable and yet he can solve college-level math problems in seconds. He acts like he doesn’t need any of this, like school isn’t important to getting what he wants, like he can have this—top grades, top spot on the basketball team—and he doesn’t even want it, the ungrateful asshole. What kind of sumg person waves around their intelligence, lets someone else take first with the knowledge that they did not truly snatch it out of the hands of an Imayoshi who tried? There’s no satisfaction in beating someone who’s given up unless they give up because of your might, your intimidation, when you rip them apart. But there’s no use letting people like Imayoshi know that, because then they’ll consider it their victory, because they couldn’t win on the score sheet, by whatever means necessary or some shit like that. It makes Hanamiya sick, a personality like that.  
  
He turns it into a game of sorts, or tries to, getting Imayoshi to crack. It’s not as simple as tripping him up in the hall, breaking his knee; there’s a subtle way Hanamiya wants to go about this. He doesn’t care if Imayoshi sees, until he starts losing and decides this isn’t the kind of game he wants to play anymore. Losing’s no fun, especially to someone who’s not even playing at all (playing by different rules is fine; Hanamiya knows that all too well).  
  
Still, sometimes Imayoshi lets him steal a kiss, a touch, as if to placate (please) or as if he thinks Hanamiya actually wants him. Dumbass, as if. But if he can pull the wool over Imayoshi’s eyes on this one, then it will be a victory in Hanamiya's book, and that’s the one that counts.


	22. nijihai, love and basketball

Love’s not like basketball; it’s not like a video game. Haizaki knows that much, but he thinks it for the wrong reason, thinks of the wrong things. He thinks he can just walk away; it's not like leaving a headset on and letting your team down; it’s not like quitting and forfeiting in the middle of a game. Except, in that way it kind of is like a game, giving up and giving in, letting your opponent’s barrage overcome you. Haizaki doesn’t know how to do that because it’s never really happened to him; he’s stuck to the things he's relatively good at, where even if he’s not the best he’s not usually overpowered.   
  
The thing about love is it overpowers you. Nijimura had learned that the hard way, when his dad had gotten sick, when he’d blamed himself for causing him stress, triggering bad things in his body, making him drink more and sleep less. Even after hearing it from his father, from his mothers, from the doctors, that it’s just genetics and bad luck and a variety of factors that probably had very little to do with stress—it doesn’t make Nijimura feel totally better, even now. That half-year alone in Tokyo had felt like penance, purgatory of sorts, all the people he’d loved so far away, Haizaki gone from the team, being alone. Looking back, it was stupid; he’d felt worse, kept wanting to talk to his younger siblings on the phone longer but hadn’t; he’d been overwhelmed by the love he’d held at bay. He’d missed too much of all of their lives, his parents (as they’ve grown older) and his siblings (as they’ve grown up).  
  
And now that he loves Haizaki, it stabs him like an ice pick that he’s missed too much of Haizaki’s life. He couldn’t have helped not meeting him earlier; he couldn’t have helped moving; but there’s lots of stuff between that, at either end, he could have done. They could have been closer before now. They could be closer now; Nijimura could have made Haizaki see that love isn’t like a game, that it bowls you over but you roll with it; it’s worth all the wipeouts along the way (not in some corny-ass greeting card set of words, but along those lines). He’d tried, but not hard enough for Haizaki not to walk away, to see this as something he could win by leaving, by forfeiture, leaving Nijimura with a bunch of broken pieces already making his hands bleed.


	23. kiyohyuuriko, hemoglobin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blood/violent imagery

Teppei has bled, has broken, has held this team on his unsteady shoulders already. He has strained under the weight kicked out from under him, his bum leg, the choice of recovery—no, on a window that may be closed already; later, on a window that may never appear. What a fucking choice, but it’s not a choice at all. The choice is Seirin; the choice is them, Junpei and Riko, the head and tail of a snarling coin, skinny arms that pack a punch and an attitude—we don’t give a fuck if you don’t know who we are; we’ll make sure you remember our spirit if nothing else. It’s admirable, if misguided, futile, but maybe not so much this year, with the new ace Riko talks about with wild fervor and Junpei with something almost close to the respect he reserves for Riko and Teppei alone (and owes Izuki and the rest, but it seems to be pinched thin with him, but Kiyoshi’s no perfect angel).   
  
Teppei has already thrown himself on the rocks for them, his team; he’ll do it again, before they ask him to, and they will. Riko will make him go out, play every minute because she’s short on options and on trust, her own style of coach, for right or wrong. Junpei will give some sort of captain’s speech, or try to, go all mega-asshole in his clutch time and yell at Teppei to give his damn all right now; he’s got more in the tank!  
  
It’s all total bullshit, but it’s what Teppei knows of them; it’s what he loves of them. They’re softer in a way he’s not sure he likes when they visit him in the hospital, as if the two of them, so usually ignorant (willfully so) of the fact that he can break, view him as completely broken just because of a change of the scenery. They don’t notice the sweat, the strain, the exhaustion; they see him now, built up close to full strength, as just the scar, the hospital gown. But it’s good that they’re so simplistic; it’s refreshing. He knows what he’ll get from them, an expectation to go out and bleed for them until he’s got no blood left, no hemoglobin, no oxygen. It’s an expectation he can deliver on, simple but difficult, but easy if it’s for the two of them, as easy as sitting between them, holding one small hand in each of his.


	24. imahana, hate is cheap

Hate is easy; hate is cheap; hate is boring. There’s a lot that Hanamiya hates; Imayoshi can see it all clearly, the contempt he holds for stupid people (or even those of average intelligence, the ones he considers that far below himself on the ladder) burning into the throat-clogging ash and smoke of hate, highly flammable. It’s there in the hatred he has for putting up with routines, school and this low level of basketball, a waste of time and talent (perhaps it wouldn’t be if he’d just be patient enough to try and make friends, get along with kids his own age—but weighting for Makoto to deign to mingle, to be patient at all, would be waiting forever, Imayoshi reckons). At some level he is wasted here, but there’s no other place he could be, and maybe he’ll happen upon something a little more worth his while than contempt, loathing, hatred.  
  
Something like love, maybe, but that’s a little too premature to say, especially given how old they are. Sometimes adults are a little too dismissive, but Imayoshi’s not sure in this case. Either way, he doesn’t feel like he’s in love yet; he doesn’t know if he could ever be in love with Hanamiya. And maybe that’s because love is difficult even when it’s not deliberate; maybe it’s because it takes time (to nurture and grow like a little seed, ha, as if; that’s a little too simplistic and saccharine). Imayoshi's certainly attracted to Hanamiya; he likes the little sneer on his lips, the sarcastic quips that he mutters to himself, that no one else seems to hear or get. He likes how clearly and simply Hanamiya hates; for someone pretending to be so above it all he’s awfully straightforward sometimes. Love is a stretch, sure, but it could be, someday, maybe.  
  
Or it could be Imayoshi’s too caught up in a flight of fancy and there’s no one around to clip his wings back and send him falling down with a reality check. He’d say Hanamiya would if he heard, but he’s not sure Hanamiya hates him. Of all people, Hanamiya seems fascinated and a little wary of Imayoshi, a feeling he can’t handle as easily, so he tries to slap the label of similar hatred over it to make it fit in. It’s not love on his end, either; it might not even be attraction. But maybe it’s close enough.


	25. imahana, intellect

Hanamiya Makoto is a certified genius, an IQ that backs it up, a full-ride scholarship to a middle school he could afford on his own, top grades, perfection. He doesn’t slip up, but he looks like he gets a full night of sleep every night. There’s no questioning that he’s a bright kid, with a bright future if he doesn’t fuck up or the world doesn’t fuck him up; he’s got a way of wrapping people around his finger.   
  
But he is still rough, still not yet fully formed, an uncut diamond, beautiful in its own way but not quite sharp enough to catch the light perfectly. Refinement takes time; Hanamiya hasn’t been tested against the things that will cut him, cut his teeth, cut his mind, sharpen it down with an exacting knife, a perfect laser (or cut him in two, an unseen flaw; that’s perfectly possible). People talk about genius as if it springs out already cut, a diamond with even facets at the bottom of a mine. As if Einstein was born knowing all of his physics equations, as if Curie was born with radiation at her fingertips. That’s not how it works, but people don’t pay attention to genius before it’s there; they assume it’s always there, inherent. To a degree it is, but it’s below the surface; it needs to be pulled up there.   
  
Imayoshi’s going to help that happen if it’s possible. He’s under no illusion that he’ll get any credit, any reward out of this other than seeing Hanamiya go to town, as a person, an intellectual, a basketball player (intellect serves him well there, creativity; they say it’s all the strength in his arms, inborn verticals, things he’s had to practice no matter his aptitude, his perception, his quick thinking. How to draw it out, though—Imayoshi’s no coach, no expert at realizing his own potential or anyone else’s for that matter. He can recognize it, but maybe not more than that, and he’s got his own stuff to take care of.  
  
Maybe kissing Hanamiya’s got nothing to do with it; Imayoshi’s doing it more because he wants to than because he’s interested in the ramifications, at least those that are relevant to Hanamiya’s genius. If it works as a side effect, great; if it means the snarl is struck from Hanamiya's face and his cheeks are red like they are when he’s angry or (as rarely happens) confused, or maybe both. But regardless, it’s cute.


	26. murahimu, if you were someone else

“What would you think of yourself if you were someone else?”  
  
It’s the kind of question that falls from Murasakibara’s lips sometimes, seemingly simple, actually getting at some other kind of point that he’s trying to make, more obliquely. He’s been talking around Himuro’s self-image lately, the kind of thing Himuro’s sick of thinking about and doesn’t want to talk about, but as much as he pulls away Murasakibara pushes and prods more. As if it’s a game, not a settled subject.  
  
It’s hard not to think about the question as he walks back, Murasakibara at his side, the constant crunch of potato chips under his teeth, as much as he doesn’t want to. He’s only thought of himself as another person as a what-if, if he were like Taiga, like Murasakibara, like Alex, if he’d had that kind of raw power to harness. If he were that person, he could like himself, maybe, if he wasn’t an insufferable jerk about it (but then he might like himself anyway). He’d hate himself if that self was another person, if he’d had all the talent but still fucked up everything the way Himuro always does, if his luck hadn’t made him magnanimous.  
  
And, as he is, there’s not much to like. He’d been an okay kid, sharp resentment and bitterness in him even then but tempered by stupid optimism that’s long since faded. The only people who love him are the ones who love that part of him, the person he no longer is, the person who’s long since gone. The people who think they like him are the people who only see the parts Himuro shows them, the likable or the illusion of that, at least. And Himuro can’t help but hate them, for idealizing this person he’s not, even though that’s what he wants to see. A paradox.   
  
Murasakibara’s seen too much, and he likes Himuro anyway. He’s a frustrating person, immense talent half-wasted, but off the court and in practice he’s not a bad person to have around. Himuro doesn’t hate him, not at all. He doesn’t have the deep rivers of bitterness toward good people inside of him that Himuro does; he’s not chasing something futile; he’s not made of want for things he can’t have. He’s not nearly as fucking pathetic as Himuro is, still stuck in this rut.   
  
“The same as I do as I’m myself,” Himuro says, unlocking the door to his room.  
  
Murasakibara’s hands curl around Himuro’s wrists, squeezing, a nonverbal rebuttal before he captures Himuro’s mouth in his.


	27. kikasa, i'll see what i can do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the canon div au i waited all thru the teikou arc to see and was summarily disappointed

“You’re not playing,” says Kasamatsu. “Look at your ankle.”  
  
Kise’s looking; he’s had a boot and then an ice pack on all morning and it’s just reduced in size enough for him to pull on his sneaker. He’s not letting this opportunity pass him by.   
  
“My ankle’s smaller. I can take them, Kasamatsu-san.”  
  
“Maybe you think you can, but you might screw it up; you might need surgery or something major. Third place isn’t worth it.”  
  
“What if we’d won?”  
  
“Then we’d play Rakuzan without you.”  
  
Kise glares; as if. Coach Takeuchi has a mile-wide inferiority complex when it comes to his old teammates, specifically Harasawa, Araki, and Shirogane. Nakatani doesn’t bother him as much, so he’ll tell Kise to rest now, but fuck that. They can beat Shutoku. Midorima’s been waiting; he deserves better than Kaijou without their ace.  
  
“Nakamura—”  
  
“Can’t do what I do. I’m not saying all four quarters; I’m saying I want to go out there. I have something to give; that’s my burden as the ace, isn’t it? If you’re the captain, then you should want me out there.”  
  
“I want what’s best for the team, what’s best for the players.”  
  
“Isn’t a win what’s best? It’s your last game.”  
  
“Kise,” says Kasamatsu, running a hand through his hair. “I appreciate the thought.”  
  
“You want to beat Shutoku? You want to fight? You don’t have to start me. Just put me in when you need me; let me go a little bit. Let me try and hold them back. Please, Kasamatsu-san. I want this.”  
  
“I know you do. I know you want that last game back.”  
  
And it hurts, all over again, that game that they should have won, that Kise should have pushed himself just a little harder, just a few more points, a little more—they’d be in the final, down him at full power, against Rakuzan. Still a better outcome.   
  
“Hey,” says Kasamatsu, and Kise realizes he’s tearing up again.  
  
Kasamatsu looks at Kise, as a boyfriend and not as a captain, his gaze softer. Kise sniffs, and Kasamatsu kisses the tip of his nose, ruffles his hair, and then hugs him. He’s smaller than Kise, very noticeably so, but his arms feel strong and secure, and for a moment Kise believes they’ll pull it off without him.   
  
“Not without me,” says Kise. “Please.”  
  
“Never thought I’d hear you beg for this,” says Kasamatsu, voice a little hoarse. “Don’t push it, but I’ll see what I can do.”


	28. akamayu, vampire au

The second Mayuzumi sees Akashi’s eyes, the red of fresh blood and the yellow of a scab, he knows this is real, true, every bit of it. This isn’t a light novel, a cheap thrill, a fake out nightmare. This isn’t just fun and games with unseen reflections. It’s thirst for blood, white fangs where Akashi’s canines should be, a long tongue that licks his cherry red lips.  
  
Vampires are hypnotic; Mayuzumi had read that somewhere (Dracula, perhaps?) and that’s true, or maybe self-fulfilling; maybe he’s baring his neck because part of him doesn’t believe it’s really true, that Akashi’s teeth will harmlessly dig in dents into his skin, that Akashi doesn’t want this, that he’ll laugh it off (as if Mayuzumi could fall for obvious usage of tropes, the old mansion, the rich clothes, the antiquated set of mannerisms). Or maybe it’s because Akashi compels him; maybe it’s because he believes it all and still wants this. A familiar, a meal, a human turned vampire. None of those are ever useful in books; none of those ever become something, someone. It’s a disposable role, almost, requisite, the first character killed off to show that something’s wrong. Mayuzumi’s mind is stalling, filling itself with thoughts as Akashi draws closer.  
  
“That’s very kind of you,” Akashi says, cold finger drawing a line down Mayuzumi’s neck. “Thoughtful.”  
  
The chomp of his fangs doesn’t hurt. It’s a sting and then numbness, like his jaw when he gets a filling in his tooth, the sound of flowing blood. There is a puncture, Mayuzumi imagines, incisions, clear like a deeper hickey. It’ll bruise. It feels nice, being sucked out this way, pleasant. Maybe he should have found a vampire to do this before; maybe he should have sought one out as more than a curiosity or half-myth. Maybe he’s feeling a little lightheaded as Akashi pulls out.  
  
“Apologies,” Akashi says. “And thank you for your generous offering. Please, stay the night.”  
  
Sleep’s beginning to sound really good right now, even if Mayuzumi wakes up to another vampire taking a meal from the other side of his neck, or if Akashi wants to suck him dry, draw out how he’s going to make the kill. There are worse ways to go, aren’t there? Mayuzumi falls asleep in a four poster bed, curtains closed all around him, staring at the spine of a book of poetry he’d grabbed from the nightstand, hand rubbing the indentations where Akashi’s fangs had drawn his blood.


	29. imahana, hold your hand

Imayoshi cries when they’re knocked out of the tournament by some nobody school; Hanamiya sneers. He supposes the noble thing to do would be to ignore his tears or comfort him, but Hanamiya’s not a noble, chivalrous person. There’s still the remains of a crumbling facade to hold up, Hanamiya Makoto the perfect student and total angel, but it’s stopped being fun or even challenging a long time ago. The only challenges left for him here are dragging this weak team up the rankings and through the bracket, and a whole lot of things to do with Imayoshi Shouichi.   
  
Those two things won’t be linked anymore; Imayoshi will retire and hand over what little he thinks he’s still holding onto with respect to this team. And then he’ll be scouted, gone to some prep school or other, and Hanamiya will be alone. It isn’t that he feels sorry for himself like this, that this is a bad spot to be in; it’s not like he’s going to miss Imayoshi terribly (he’d like to think Imayoshi would miss him, because who wouldn’t, but part of Hanamiya’s a little doubtful; high school boys are probably more of a challenge or at least a new frontier for Imayoshi).   
  
Hanamiya flops down next to Imayoshi on the bus; the few other third years are crying, too, some of them openly sobbing. Stupid. There’s no tightness in Hanamiya’s throat; that’s just lingering fall allergy symptoms. He’s not that sad to lose; it’s just basketball and there’s no use crying because they’re bad at it. Which they are; Hanamiya alone (and Imayoshi, maybe, he supposes) isn’t enough to lift them up and carry them that far. It will be, next year, maybe; it fucking better be. Although middle-school championships aren’t the world, and Hanamiya has no interest in sharing a trophy with these idiots around him.   
  
Imayoshi’s still sniffling, wiping his nose on his jecket.   
  
“You want a tissue?”  
  
Imayoshi raises an eyebrow. “Is that your attempt at comforting me?”  
  
“I’m not! But your snotty face is disgusting. What are you, sad?”  
  
“Not going to miss playing with me?”  
  
“Like hell,” says Hanamiya, turning away.  
  
Imayoshi smirks, his hand winding its way over Hanamiya’s thigh and holding Hanamiya’s hand. Hanamiya digs into his bag and throws the tissue pack at Imayoshi.  
  
“Clean up.”  
  
“You’re so sweet, Makoto-kun.”  
  
“You’re an asshole.”  
  
Imayoshi blows his nose; at least he hadn’t been wiping at it with his mercifully-dry hand. Still, maybe it is kind of—not nice, but something, to hold his hand right now.


	30. aokaga, cleveland pizza

“Pizza by the slice,” says Aomine. “Do you even have that in Chicago?”  
  
Kagami rolls his eyes. “Who wants just a slice or two? Are you saying you can’t eat a whole pie?”  
  
“I’m saying I follow my team-mandated nutrition plan.”  
  
Kagami snorts, giving a sidelong glance to the partially-crushed beer and soda cans on the table, which, gross. Aomine’s a fucking slob, even worse than some of Kagami’s teammates (who are, indeed, terrible); he’s worse than Kagami’s older teammates had expected him to be, the very caricature of a young man with a lot of money who lives alone.   
  
“Do you leave the boxes sitting out, too?”  
  
“If there’s not enough room in the fridge,” says Aomine, dialing a number on his phone.  
  
“Yeah, hi. Can I have a large veggie supreme with extra cheese and sausage, and—what do you want? Everything?”  
  
“Less than that.”  
  
“Fine, make that two large veggie supremes with extra cheese and sausage.”  
  
Kagami hopes Aomine isn’t the kind of person to get his only vegetables from pizza toppings, but that’s selling him a little bit short, a thought that’s mean enough to make him pull Aomine down for a kiss when he gets off the phone after having given an address and callback number. Aomine practically sits down on top of him, and Kagami pushes him off after a second.  
  
“You’re heavy.”  
  
“Lighter than you.”  
  
“Is that something to brag about?”  
  
Aomine rolls his eyes. “I just bought you a pizza, you know.”  
  
“I can pay you back if you want.”  
  
“I’d rather have your eternal gratitude.”  
  
“Thank you, Darling. I’m impressed with your pizza-ordering skills.”  
  
“That’s better," says Aomine, tugging Kagami’s hand over into his lap, scraping the rough pad of his thumb across Kagami’s skin.   
  
The pizza gets there late but still warm, so there’s not much to complain about other than being fucking hungry, and that passes as Kagami shoves two slices down his throat in immediate succession. It’s not like the stuff he gets back in Chicago, but better food than he’d expected from Cleveland (the extra cheese is probably necessary for sticking all of the toppings on, and it works). Aomine grabs a whole quarter of the pizza and folds it in half down the split, trying to keep it from tearing apart totally.  
  
“You okay there? I’m not going to eat all of it.”  
  
“I’m not worried about that,” says Aomine. “But this way I can say I only had four slices.”  
  
Kagami snorts. That’s really kind of pushing it, but whatever.


	31. momoriko, power

Power. It’s something Riko’s father talks about in the abstract, strength of will, strength of mind, strength of body. Like he wants her to have it, to go out there and take it, and so she heads toward it, eyes on the goal. When she turns back to look at him, power coursing through her veins, her father seems almost a little scared, like a barrier’s been thrown up between them, as if he hadn’t wanted her to go that far, just far enough, some place she’d left behind and outgrown so long ago.  
  
No one really understands her power, her strength, her desire for more. Riko’s mother does, a little bit; she’s got ambition, but while she’s proud of Riko’s accomplishments she’s distant in her own way from them. The boys she coaches respect her but some of them fear her, and that’s not what she wants. She wants them to rise up to the challenge, look her in the eye but listen to her commands. Maybe that’s a paradox; maybe it’s too much to hope for. Maybe it’s the reason she keeps her cute accessories out of sight sometimes, as if they lessen the power she wields in their eyes (maybe it’s the way she hears Hyuuga say feminine like it’s some kind of dirty word).   
  
And then there’s Satsuki, who acts like she was born with power. It’s not her against the world and she’s holding her own; it’s the world in her hands, crushing it under her thumbs if she so pleases, flicking those she has no time for off its surface. The power in Satsuki’s eyes is easy to recognize for what it is, and so they bump elbows at first, jostling each other out of the way. A false competition in a man’s world, that there’s only one woman good enough. If the world is theirs for the taking, then can’t they make their own rules?  
  
(Still, Riko will never stop competing with Satsuki, if not for power and status than for something else, strength, sports, video games, academics—Satsuki is the one person she takes true pleasure in beating, the one person over whom she feels truly victorious after coming out ahead. Satsuki’s that way, too, and that’s what makes them compatible, competitive, in the first place.)  
  
Still, it’s better to surge ahead, stronger together, hand in hand, fingers linked, shoulders brushing, better to have someone who kisses you for her own luck as much as hers. Someone with whom it feels like them against the world, a fight that’s maybe a pretty even matchup.


	32. akamayu, the death of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> murder/gore

Embalm him. Send him to the crematorium. Take care of his body, in the traditional way. Akashi Seijuurou is (was?) not a traditional man, though, and he deserves better. He deserves better than an investigation into the cause of death; he deserves more than a simple funeral, a grave in the family plot, a legacy forgotten.   
  
They had talked, briefly, of what would be done if Seijuurou were to die, a long time ago. What if his heart, weak in his mother’s side of the family, gave out? What if he were shot by a business rival, his bodyguards in momentary lapse? (Trust with Seijuurou is never absolute; every situation, every fail of a safeguard, must be considered.)  
  
“You’ll know,” says Seijuurou. “I’m putting this trust in you.”  
  
It’s as if he’d known Chihiro would kill him someday, but he’d wanted to keep him around for that regardless. Chihiro had accepted this long con with reservations, becoming the Akashi boy’s lover and then taking him out when necessary. There was never a time when Chihiro had thought he’d go soft and be unable to do it, but there were times he’d wake up next to Seijuurou and hear his soft breathing, quiet and like a small child almost. Perhaps Seijuurou had known, had wanted to make things easier for Chihiro (make him feel like once again, his victory was incomplete) by leaving the bodyguards at home on their weekend getaway.  
  
Or harder, because now that Seijuurou’s gone the blood’s all over Chihiro’s hands. Even if he hadn’t done it, it would be awfully hard to present a case. There’s no airtight alibi, no alibi at all. There’s only Seijuurou’s body, here, and Chihiro.  
  
The driver is scheduled to pick them up tomorrow morning; someone may notice Seijuurou’s unanswered emails before then, but they won’t say anything. The parlor will have to be scrubbed, but they never use this room; all of the blood’s on a slipcover, Seijuurou’s body going cold against the clear plastic. His eyes, bright red, are open, unseeing.  
  
His remains deserve better than traditional means, better than burning or burying twenty feet underground. Chihiro will know. And if the blood’s on his hands, well, there’s no extra harm in cutting out Seijuurou’s still heart and getting blood on his lips and teeth and tongue. The best care there is, the care Seijuurou had trusted, is to be with Chihiro, after all.


	33. kagahimu, full and present

Taiga wakes up hungry and alone, the bed cold beside him. He can smell something good cooking from the other room, past the slightly-cracked bedroom door; he can hear the sizzling of something on a pan on a stove and relaxes. He’s not alone. It’s a stupid thing to wake up thinking about, a dream that’s not quite a nightmare but unsettling nonetheless, an empty apartment, empty apartment building, no landlady, no other tenants, and when he tries to get back into his apartment he’s locked out, and he’s hungry; in his dream he’d thought about Tatsuya, so far away, Tatsuya’s failed first few attempts at making eggs over easy way back when, the things that would never come to pass between them.  
  
He wakes up and thinks about Tatsuya in the other room, Tatsuya a few inches over on the bed, the things that have come to pass between them, their relationship patched up and rebuilt into something new. There’s sweat on his brow, on his back, soaking his shirt; Taiga balls it up and throws it at the hamper, and digs around in the closet for something new and clean. The light of the hallway is sharp and stinging in Taiga’s eyes; he screws them shut and lifts his hand like a visor.   
  
The kitchen lights are dimmer; Tatsuya’s standing over the stove (they’d redone the kitchen last year, raised the counters so they wouldn’t have to bend over all the fucking time) frying eggs; he flips the one closest to the front perfectly, almost breaks the yolk of the second, and manages to get the next two done well enough. He turns to smile at Taiga, and it sends a jolt through Taiga’s chest like a defibrillator. How can his mind trick him into thinking he’s so alone when he has Tatsuya right here, within reach? His stomach growls, and Tatsuya slides the eggs onto a plate.   
  
“Two each?”  
  
“Sure,” says Taiga.   
  
There’s no toast, but he grabs a slice of bread from the end of the loaf to soak up the remains of the burst yolk, his fork scraping the plate and then Tatsuya’s fork. There’s egg on Tatsuya’s lip; he looks tired, perhaps plagued by the same thoughts as Taiga, thinking about loneliness, hunger, want.   
  
Taiga brushes over Tatsuya’s mouth with his thumb, sweeping aside the egg and waiting for Tatsuya’s tongue to dart out and lick. The action makes his face break into a smile, and never has a moment felt more real; never has Taiga felt more full and present.


	34. aokuro, side by side

They walk abreast, Aomine on the left and Kuroko on the right, falling into step with each other the way they always have. They don’t even have to think about it anymore; it’s the one part of their relationship that never goes away, the one thing that despite everything else breaking, eroding, rusting out, is ingrained in their muscle memories. Kuroko walks faster; Aomine walks slower; the paces of their legs match; the routes they tread are familiar even when they don’t know where the hell they are. This is the same.  
  
It was the same at Teikou; it was the same when they fought; it was the same when they weren’t fighting anymore; it was the same when they teamed up again. It’s the same now, heading back from the practice courts, Aomine twirling the ball on one finger (another thing Kuroko hasn’t quite mastered; he’d had it for a little while but then stopped practicing and lost it, though he doesn’t seem too bothered by his inability here, and Aomine supposes it’s not quite relevant to basketball anyway).   
  
His other hand is by his side, palm open, waiting for Kuroko to take it. Sometimes Aomine’s the one who makes the first move (and that doesn’t qualify as a move, more of an invitation that’s always open, even when he has both hands jammed in his pockets) but usually he waits for Kuroko, his more particular decisiveness. Today Kuroko doesn’t wait long, tucks his palm inside Aomine’s, small fingertips in the gaps between Aomine’s fingers, a custom fit Aomine’s so fond of.   
  
He stops spinning the basketball and tucks it under his arm, and then squeezes Kuroko’s hand. Aomine’s not really a mushy sentimental guy, and Kuroko isn’t either; they’re not going to go on and on about how much they adore each other even if it’s pretty true. (Sometimes Aomine wants to, but it’s kind of embarrassing for both of them, so he doesn’t). But they both know it, even if the confirmation and the statement is nonverbal. It’s not something they need to shor through gestures, constant contact; it’s something that just is, like constellations in the sky or the Tokyo smog that blocks them from sight or the train schedule. It’s something that makes itself known in the way they walk, side by side, anywhere to anywhere else, Kuroko on the right side and Aomine on the left.


	35. kiyohana, eat your heart out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> violence/gore

Love hurts; love bites; love draws blood and lets the wound ooze yellow and green with infection. Love is unflinching, unforgiving; it’s a creature like and unlike the both of them, the third one in the room, baring its teeth every so often to remind them that hey, it’s there; it’s going to slap both of them with jealousy and anger that feels like there’s more at stake than usual, maybe because there is more at stake than usual.   
  
It’s pretty stupid, Teppei thinks, that love is symbolized by plush hearts, chocolates, flowers, delicate pretty things. Maybe that’s just capitalism at work, or maybe it’s something pretty on the surface but still beneath, a clear acid lake that’s only so tranquil because the fish have all died and it’s too inhospitable even for algae. Chocolates are sweet but unhealthy; squeezing a heart is deadly; those are trite, reaching a bit for the metaphor of Teppei’s choosing (but perhaps the arrow through the heart, a wound, an infection—no). Or maybe it’s a rose, beautiful but dead already, cut from its bush, thorns on its stem that prick through your eyes.   
  
Teppei can see Makoto quite clearly, though, even with anger and jealousy and worry clouding his head, clenching his heart or his throat. That’s never been an issue with them, the ground level so Makoto stares up at Teppei’s height, their eyes meeting, a staredown that Makoto initiates, or seems to initiate. But Teppei’s been there all along, the less-likely suspect, the master of the act Makoto’s long since given up. They see their own reflections in each other’s eyes, narcissistic and projecting, perhaps, but because they’re so alike (and because Teppei knows how much Makoto can’t stand them being alike, a comparison he never wants to hear again but always will). You are me; I am you; I will claw your heart out with a rusty ladle if I must. It’s a comforting thought, the way love is supposed to be; you’re never alone; you’ll take each other to the grave.  
  
Dying together is so romantic, celebrated, even, the acknowledgement that of course someone died of grief, without their other half; of course they’d died together and wasn’t that at least—not good; death is never good. But fitting, the way two people are fitted to each other? Perhaps a mutual kill is not so highly regarded, but perhaps no one will ever know the difference.


	36. takamido, doctor/patient au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> serious illness/drugs/medicine

Being a doctor is not playing a game. It’s not like basketball; it’s not like shogi; it’s not something where your pieces fall into place and you win. It’s not a competition against the other people playing by the same rules, but being an oncologist certainly is a competition. If war is competition (and Midorima’s heard it described as war so many times, sick of it before he’d started his rotation in oncology, until he’d understood it, the constant battles, deep in the trenches with kids whose skin’s become translucent, whose eyes seem so much wider without their eyelashes, with people in their thirties who suddenly look old and frail, soft cloth cap and breathing tube and shaking hands).   
  
Most patients come in with few clues, little experience; it goes without saying that Takao Kazunari is not most patients but especially in this regard. He does the research; he counters the recommendations; Midorima’s heard of his reputation long before he’s given Takao’s case when his primary doctor is transferred and, well, Lymphoma is Midorima’s specialty.  
  
“We’ll go with a traditional plan,” he says. “That is, if you’ve no objections.”  
  
“Which drugs?” says Takao. “I want to see them all.”  
  
He’s the kind of patient Midorima had always wanted, the kind of patient he’d thought he’d get—his supervisors had always told him not to confuse and overwhelm the patients with too much information, detailed descriptions of side effects, warning labels. Cancer is treated with mild dosages of poison; there’s got to be a better way but no one’s found it yet.   
  
They spend half an hour discussing brand and off-brand versions of chemicals, patents, side effects, success rates. Takao seems satisfied with Midorima’s recommended doses, and they agree to start him tomorrow. There is something, a spark in Takao’s eyes, that tells Midorima Takao sees this the same way as he does, as something to win. They are patient and doctor, but it’s hard to say that in this regard they aren’t on equal footing.  
  
You’re not supposed to date patients, but when your patient goes home and slips his cell humber across on the back of a brochure for acne cream, and his records are all about to be transferred, well—perhaps that’s not a breach. Midorima likes to play by the rules in this regard, but he’ll give it 24 hours at least.  
  
“I hope next time we see each other,” Midorima pauses. “That medicine won’t be the primary subject.”


	37. imahana, ambition

It’s easy for other people to judge Imayoshi for his profession. His mother says he’s not an honest man, and won't accept gifts from him. Susa’s a cop; he tells Imayoshi not to bother telling him anything that could implicate him, but he won’t pursue where there’s a smoldering trail. That’s more than Imayoshi should be able to ask of anyone, though Susa’s just another dishonest man on the other side of the law when it comes down to what it is. Hanamiya, though, judges for an entirely different reason.  
  
“A petty crime like that again? You could do so much better.”  
  
“I’m flattered,” says Imayoshi. “You’re far more ambitious for me than I am.”  
  
Hanamiya scowls, grinding his cigarette between his teeth. Hanamiya knows nothing other than ambition, the things he craves—power, money, status, the things he's always had, the way he was raised, the king crab in the bucket, clawing down and out the others racing for the top, the things he’s always been afraid to lose. He could get there by honest means, but those are not secure; those test his patience; why do that when someone else is going to cheat for all of the glory? Hanamiya’s at least smart enough not to get caught.   
  
But his ambition spills over to Imayoshi, the only way Hanamiya knows how to love, the way his mother and his grandparents loved him, with the weight of expectations and the full faith of Hanamiya’s ability to go far and make them proud. A bank robber of a boyfriend isn’t much to be proud of in the traditional sense, but Imayoshi would rather not Hanamiya keep him around as a status symbol, as something he can show off. He’d rather have this, this balance between them as it is, the presents he buys Hanamiya with his dirty stolen money (no dirtier, at the end of the day, than the checks Hanamiya cashes, direct deposit every two weeks) that HAnamiya wears without reluctance.   
  
“I suppose you grew up wanting to be a bank robber,” Hanamiya says.  
  
“I did,” says Imayoshi. “Sounded like relatively easy money, but still a challenge to get it.”  
  
Hanamiya scoffs, as if (and it probably is) he thinks that anything relatively easy isn’t worth getting at all. There is something to be said for a challenge, but something to be said for less-than-constant mental stimulation, too. Neither way is right, but if they’re both satisfied by their own routes, there’s no reason to change.


	38. akamayu, paradox

Light without shadow is a paradox; Akashi knows this much is true. He had not quite considered it in the beginning of middle school, content with the blinding, flickering light, of the four of them and Haizaki. And then Aomine’s eyes, most accustomed to the burning glow, had found the shadow he’d cast, and they’d weaponized it. The brightest lights cut through the deepest dark, cast the sharpest, darkest shadows. It’s simple contrast, physics, biology, the way eyes perceive light, the foolishness of senses, the way the human brain preprocesses, prejudges before consciousness can even hit.   
  
Akashi knows to look for the shadows at Rakuzan before he even arrives. The light has already started burning firm and bright, three mighty kings, three glittering thrones, pillars of strength to lift him up like a beacon, the top of a lighthouse, the basketball his bulb as he jams it into the hoop. He adds to that light, focuses it like the lens of a camera, like a beam bouncing off of a mirror; he increases the intensity, the power, the might. It takes a little while for his eyes to adjust, to see the third-years quit in protest, all of them useless, colorless, too close to the light to be shadows, too weak to cast shadows of their own.  
  
And then there is him, quiet, retreated, Mayuzumi. The shadow, even as Akashi’s flames lick at his fingers, darker, sharper, pale eyes staring back at Akashi unafraid, as if to ask who is Akashi? What does he want? There is spirit; there is spark in this shadow; he has waited in the dark a long time. He is not perfect, but he is very good.   
  
“I wonder if you keep me around for this,” Mayuzumi says, between short kisses; Akashi bites his lip.  
  
It’s a stupid suggestion; Mayuzumi certainly doesn't need the validation and he’s smart enough (bright enough, indeed, Akashi’s own little joke with himself) to know what he’s here for, the shadow’s path he walks.   
  
“You’re not going to give me the satisfaction, huh,” Mayuzumi says.  
  
He doesn’t seem too disappointed by this; he’ll come back with more ammunition for this, what he sees as a competition but isn’t, really. It’s not that they both win; nothing works like that. It’s that neither wins; this is doomed to be a draw, the light piercing the dark, the shadow standing out, there from the very start.


	39. imahana, dissatisfaction

Hanamiya is never satisfied. Like a person with a hormonal disease, a lack of anything to tell him he’s full, like a creature that eats and eats and needs to eat more, unsatisfied with what he’s already taken, on top of what has been given to him. He is never satisfied with the state of chaos around him, with the trouble and confusion. It’s about stirring up the most shit; it’s about leaving his mark, even where you can only see it if you have a blacklight.   
  
Imayoshi’s amused by such things, sometimes; it’s better to watch from afar as Hanamiya works, tying things together and tearing them apart, spreading his invisible spiderweb and catching people like flies, twisting them to shout at each other about a problem that he’d created, an illusion he’d set up. Even when things are already chaotic, a contentious rivalry or a heated relationship, it’s not enough for him. He wants more; he needs more; it’s like if he doesn’t get his daily dose of trouble he’ll cease to have meaning in his life. And that’s all well and good as long as he doesn’t try to drag Imayoshi into it.   
  
He does; he’s not going to give up even when he pretends to. He doesn’t like Imayoshi, and it’s clear from the way he sneers in contempt, even though he regards Imayoshi with something a little bit closer to respect than what he gives anyone else. But that means he tries twice as hard to ruin things, to pull Imayoshi down to his level, and it’s not like Imayoshi’s not tempted to go down there with him sometimes. Okay, more than sometimes, even as Hanamiya seems to be descending a long slow elevator down to hell.  
  
And maybe he’s already there, enjoying the fruits of Hanamiya’s labors as he is, plucking them from the trees and biting them, letting the juice flow over his lips. Maybe his feet are planted when it’s Hanamiya’s lips that Imayoshi tastes on his mouth, Hanamiya’s sharp tongue, silenced of wit for the moment, occupied with dragging itself against Imayoshi’s teeth. Imayoshi’s considered telling Hanamiya that he’s more pleasant like this, but that would make him do it less, more concerned with spiting Imayoshi than pleasing either of them. For as much as Hanamiya loves to spread chaos around him, he’s far too predictable as a person, though that hardly makes him boring.


	40. aokaga, you make me feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sexual references

They’re curled up in the afterglow, the small bit of time when things between them are never contentious, Aomine’s arm draped across Kagami’s side, long fingers pressing into his back where it’s sore and damn, it feels good, Aomine’s face buried in Kagami’s sweaty neck. Time is whirring away, between now and the time it’s going to feel just plain dirty and gross to be the two of them, here between the dirty sheets.   
  
Things shouldn’t be contentious during sex but they are, the way Aomine looks at Kagami like a challenge, like they’re fighting for something. It’s not like some shitty porno where they’re wrestling for who gets to top or whatever; it’s not like Kagami’s thinking about basketball, though maybe Aomine is. Maybe this is all a long con, break his heart and break his game, a stupid thought but now that Kagami’s thinking it he can’t stop, can’t help but wonder if it’s true. If Aomine hates him, if he’s gotten Kuroko in on it too, if. His breathing grows quicker; his heart is thumping in the quiet.  
  
“Kagami? You okay?”  
  
Aomine’s voice sounds half-asleep but he sounds genuinely concerned.  
  
“How do you feel? About me? For real?”  
  
“For real? I like you. I thought I just made that obvious.” He pecks Kagami on the nose. “You’re kind of annoying sometimes, but I am, too, so.”  
  
(Of course, if this was all a long con, would he tell Kagami in the first place?)  
  
“I just thought,” says Kagami, and then bites at his lip.   
  
“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m not great at showing affection or anything, and it’s. Kind of embarrassing for me,” says Aomine. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, honestly.”  
  
He rolls over; they’re getting to the point where they’re both wide awake and aware of their own filth, too much to go back to sleep.   
  
“I don’t, either. Intrusive thoughts.”  
  
“You can tell me,” says Aomine. “I’m all ears.”  
  
“I don’t know,” says Kagami, but he’s not going to be chickenshit about this. “When we have sex, it’s like. It’s like it’s kind of, competitive for you?”  
  
“Yeah?” says Aomine, like it’s no big deal.  
  
“Isn’t this something we do together? Not me versus you.”   
  
“I mean,” says Aomine, and then he half-shrugs, sitting up. “It is, but still. I want to be the one to make you scream; I want to make you come; I want to do a good job. It’s me trying to figure out your body, I guess. Like, I know how to be competitive too well with you, so that’s kind of what it is?”  
  
“Oh,” says Kagami.  
  
It doesn’t make that much sense to him, but it doesn’t sound like a flimsy excuse or actual hate.  
  
“Am I making you feel good?”  
  
Kagami nods.   
  
“You’re making me feel good, too,” he says, looking away, and if Kagami were to touch his face it would probably be warm.


	41. takamido, on my to-do list

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sexual references

Going to this bar was a mistake. Midorima’s sister keeps telling him to stop moping, to go out and try to have a fun fling or something, as if that’s going to help him get over his ex. Like it’s an easy formula, like any of this is. Yes, love is all chemical reactions, tricks of the brain, but there’s no easy way to hack or short-circuit it, like so many things that should be more convenient but really aren’t. But Midorima’s defenses are slipping, and if he goes out he’ll at least be away from his sister—but of course he’s ended up at a bar he’d been to with his ex, and he’s spent the first forty minutes in paranoid search. No hideous brown suit and buzz cut, no eyebrows tweezed too thin (God, Midorima had hated his eyebrows). There are other single people here, but they seem interested in chatting each other up and leaving him alone, and one by one they pass him by.  
  
Midorima hates martinis, but he manages to finish his first and orders another. Of course he’s the kind of person who would go out and drink alone and come back to his parents’ place wasted off his ass. It doesn’t get too much sadder than this, does it?  
  
“Date stand you up?” says a voice.  
  
Midorima turns around, a cute guy with bright eyes is grinning back at him. Midorima shakes his head.  
  
“I came here without a plan. It was a mistake.”  
  
“Yeah, you should have ordered a better drink. The martinis here are terrible.”  
  
Cute Guy sits down next to Midorima, and Midorima’s fist clenches against the bar. Better not get his hopes up; this is the first time anyone’s even talked to him, and maybe he’d been stood up and looking for commiseration.  
  
“What would you recommend?”  
  
“The beer list is pretty good, but nothing else if you’re not a beer guy.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Takao Kazunari, by the way,” says Cute Guy.  
  
“Midorima Shintarou.”  
  
Takao looks at Midorima’s hair and grins, but there’s no crack about nature’s sense of humor.   
  
“What brings you here, Takao?”  
  
Midorima cringes inwardly; he’s always sucked at this stuff, but this is bad even for him.  
  
“Just thought I’d try to chat up a good-looking stranger, and I’ve found one.”  
  
“Oh,” says Midorima, feeling his cheeks heat up.  
  
“By the way,” says Takao, leaning closer. “I’ve got a pretty short to-do list, but I’ve put you on it. Wanna help me cross it off?”  
  
It’s incredibly bold, probably a pickup line he’s used on a dozen people before, but Midorima can’t say it doesn’t work on a personality like his. And he hasn’t thought about his ex at all since Takao sat down, so maybe his sister had been right. Midorima nods.


	42. imahana, first impression

First impressions are sometimes the wrong ones. Hanamiya’s had to revise his several times, the usual shortcuts of worthless or worthwhile, dividing lines that are not blurred or crossed in reality. He doesn’t make mistakes; he’s just taking more time now and fixing things, is all. Like Seto, he’d pegged as a lazy, bored asshole, most of which is actually true, but he’s got more layers. He’s more athletic than he looks, even considering his height; he likes winning. And Matsumoto, who Hanamiya had originally wanted to cut from the team; he’s more than a serviceable center. He’s willing to buy into the system; he’s willing to contribute to Hanamiya’s goals.   
  
And, well, then there’s Imayoshi. Hanamiya’s first impression of his personality had been quite accurate, as usual. He’s got that slimeball aspect to him, the thing that says he doesn’t want to look out for anyone but himself, that says he thinks he’s so clever and bright and scheming, just because he sees through Hanamiya’s facade. It’s not like being smarter than the average middle-schooler (or middle school teacher) is anything much to be proud of, but Imayoshi seems to take some sort of perverse satisfaction in it. But that on its own is disgusting, a minor problem. Imayoshi plays basketball, despite his scrawny frame (he’s only a little bit taller than Hanamiya and yet he’s got to be several kilos lighter) and his poor vision; he looks like his eyes are closed behind his glasses he’s always squinting so hard. He can’t be much on the court, for all his scheming and strategy; maybe he'd make a half-decent manager.  
  
Except, somehow, he is a threat. His passes are sharp and crisp, coming from a strength that shouldn’t be there given his lack of muscles. And he knows where to send them; they get there to the open man, through traffic. He can shoot, too; he can steal; he can somehow see through those closed eyes with shot vision, and it’s absolutely infuriating.   
  
“Are you mad because you were wrong, or because I’m better than you?” Imayoshi asks.  
  
Hanamiya grinds his teeth. “We’ll see who’s better.”  
  
Except by the time Hanamiya is, it seems almost like Imayoshi doesn’t care; he’s still glad he’s good; he’s still a hidden explosiveness; he’s more interested in kissing Hanamiya, though. But as long as Imayoshi’s attention revolves around him, maybe it doesn’t matter.


	43. kikasa, good for the game

“You didn’t think you were going to get away with that, did you?” says Kasamatsu.  
  
Kise looks up, as if caught off guard. “Get away with what?”  
  
It’s like he thinks by looking at Kasamatsu, perfectly-formed beautiful face, pouted lips, long eyelashes, face full of makeup that brings out the golden hue of his eyes, the contours of his cheekbones—yeah, okay, it’s kind of distracting, still, how beautiful he is. Though it’s only distracting when Kasamatsu lets it be that way, only when he thinks about Kise in his bed, Kise pulling him back for a few minutes of sleep in the morning, Kise nuzzling his neck, kissing the spot he’d missed shaving, Kise’s lips on his bare chest. (Where was he?)   
  
“Not telling me. About your ankle. It’s hurting, right?”  
  
“It’s not bad, Senpai. Shougo-kun just stepped on it a little. I’ll be good to go.”  
  
“A little? I’m surprised he didn’t fucking break it.”  
  
“Well he didn’t, and I’m fine, so that’s not relevant, Senpai.”  
  
“Don’t bat your eyelashes at me, Kise.”  
  
Kise sighs. “I don’t want to complain about it.”  
  
“That’s new,” says Kasamatsu, but it’s really not—Kise’s tough; he’s never really complained much about the length of practice, the amount of weight he’s told to lift, how high he has to jump; he’s said it’s boring plenty of times, or that he doesn’t get why they have to do it, but when it comes to physical pain, sweat and soreness and bruising, he never complains.   
  
“Listen, Kise. It’s bad for you and for the team. I know you want to play Seirin.”  
  
“I want to beat Kurokocchi and Kagamicchi,” says Kise.   
  
“Coach isn’t going to take you out of the lineup, and I’m not going to tell him,” says Kasamatsu. “But I’m watching you. This is pretty fucking relevant to me. Complain all you want—wait, no, that came out wrong. But if it’s really hurting, you’re allowed to, okay? Come to me; I’m your captain.”  
  
“Aww, Senpai. It sounds like you do care.”  
  
“I do,” says Kasamatsu, scratching his reddening cheek. “YUou know that already, though.”  
  
“It’s nice to hear,” says Kise. “Maybe I should get injured more.”  
  
He shouldn’t even fucking suggest that; Kasamatsu glares at him and the uneasy smile falls from Kise’s face in a few second, and he reaches over to pat Kasamatsu’s knee.  
  
“Kidding, sorry. But I’m good for this game, I promise.”


	44. imahana, malicious rumors

Everyone is in one of two groups: those who like Hanamiya (or at least respect him), his mother, his teammates; and those who dislike him and spread malicious rumors, jealous people like those shitty Seirin kids and the people who left the Kirisaki Daiichi team when he’d joined and the other so-called Uncrowned Kings (what’s the use of naming a group of talents if you’re damning with faint praise, anyway), and him. Imayoshi. Or maybe he’s in his own special category of extra-shitty people, but he’s not nearly as special as he thinks he is, as he’d like to be. Hanamiya’s sure Imayoshi wants to stick out to him, but really. Please, as if.   
  
“Imayoshi likes you; I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Hara. “And clearly you like him, too, if you’re so fixated.”  
  
“I am not fixated," says Hanamiya. “Shut up.”  
  
Hara snaps his gum; Hanamiya imagines snapping his wrist in two, not a clean break, pieces of the bone sticking up like splinters. And then he thinks about Imayoshi again; he doesn’t like Imayoshi. He hates him; it’s convenient for Imayoshi to hate him, too, and he does. Why wouldn’t he? He’d oh-so-cleverly figured Hanamiya out and Hanamiya had still gotten what he’d wanted, thwarting Imayoshi, stealing his position as point guard. He hasn’t actually heard Imayoshi spreading rumors, but why wouldn’t he? IT would make sense for him to say, hey, this guy you think is so wonderful actually wants to injure people on the court. Even if it’s true, it’s still malicious. It just makes sense; there’s nothing special about it, nothing to fixate on but that stupid stare with Imayoshi’s eyes shut tightly.   
  
And then Imayoshi asks him out, voice smooth and softer than usual, smile glinting with teeth like a shark and Hanamiya feels horrible, right down to the pit of his stomach. What the fuck?   
  
“You hate me,” he says. “You don’t mean it.”  
  
“I like you,” says Imayoshi. “Maybe you just hate yourself.”  
  
“I do not,” says Hanamiya. “And I hate you. You hate me. That’s just how it is.”  
  
“Does it have to be that way?” says Imayoshi. “You’re a smart kid, Hanamiya; people can change.”  
  
Hanamiya snorts. “Like I’m supposed to believe you have. Don’t call me kid, either, weirdo.”  
  
“Your loss,” Imayoshi says with a shrug.  
  
And why, when he walks away, ambling slow, does it feel like Imayoshi’s words ring true?


	45. murahimu, chasing the dream

They should have been chasing the same dream. Once they were, the dream of victory, the highest kind of victory, the NBA championship, better than the Winter Cups they didn’t win together, the college championships in which they’d faced off against each other. They had been chasing it; Atsushi had given up. It’s the conference finals, the end in sight regardless of the result, the time to push yourself, and Atsushi doesn’t. He’s healthy, as completely as you can be after a hundred plus games; Tatsuya’s banged up but he doesn’t show it, the sleep he doesn’t get, the aching in his bones, the wrist that swells until he thinks it might be strained.  
  
Maybe he doesn’t see Atsushi’s pain, but after they lose, when ATsushi bricks a shot almost half-intentionally Tatsuya doesn’t want to talk to anyone. There goes his shot, until a whole new year, probably a whole new team because they don’t have the cap room to keep him and Atsushi and Tatsuya knows which one they’d prefer.  
  
“Why the fuck did you do that?” Tatsuya says, his throat closing around his words, like a bad allergic reaction (he’s allergic to losing but keeps doing it anyway, damn it).   
  
“Why the fuck do you do this to yourself?” Atsushi says. “I can’t get you to sit out—”  
  
“It’s a series and a half! I’d fix it after that; we have to push; it’s the finals; I can’t let myself—”  
  
He’s getting incoherent with emotion, with disappointment and the adrenaline flooding out of his body, pouring through the cracks in the skin on the bottom of his feet, the anger at Atsushi, once again; this is a worse betrayal than before; this is more intentional and Atsushi knows full well what the fuck he’s doing.  
  
“You’re hurting bad,” says Atsushi. “I cant see you like this.”  
  
“Just go away,” says Tatsuya. “Leave me well enough the fuck alone. How loud do I have to yell to make you listen?”  
  
“I’m not going to leave you alone,” says Atsushi. “You’re my business.”  
  
“Not like this.”  
  
“Especially like this. If you keep hurting yourself, who’s going to help you?”  
  
They’ve gone in the same circle twice around; Tatsuya’s feeling so drained; so sad; Atsushi leans down to kiss him and Tatsuya pulls away. It’s not even that there here right now; it’s that he’s so angry he wants to punch a hole through the wall, and it’s not like he can fuck up his arm that much worse, can he?


	46. imahana, fuse

Hanamiya’s fuse has always been short, like a chopped-off piece of dynamite, ready to explode and then explode again, a quick series of chain reactions, always with infinitely more links at the end of his chain, always with more energy to explode over and over again, like some sort of renewable supply. Wind-powered, perhaps? The strength of Hanamiya’s own bluster, overconfidence, the cute little sneer on his face—it’s a comparison Imayoshi might make aloud, as if newly-musing, just to get that angry look on Hanamiya’s face.  
  
He’s never not tightly-wound, never not frustrated at something (mostly the idiocy of other people, but Imayoshi’s long since learned to stop putting himself above them, even if he’s not a total genius he’s smarter than a lot of people but that doesn’t make them not useful, not fun to talk to or bounce insights off of or manipulate). Or at the world, at the hand he’s been dealt, at the hands of other people, seemingly better than him; there’s always a way for Hanamiya to get ahead by putting them down and pulling himself up at the same time. Does all of that really matter so much to him? That’s a rhetorical question; it does, and Hanamiya’s endless energy comes in handy there, if it’s handy for anything. Maybe if Hanamiya had less, he wouldn’t take everything so damn seriously, but then it wouldn’t be so much fun to wind him up tighter and watch him go, frustrated until he unwinds, barking at Imayoshi until their mouths meet in a quick and quiet kiss, until the kiss turns into something more, something Imayoshi’s even more glad that Hanamiya’s got the energy for.  
  
He can be tiring, exhausting sometimes, like a small child who endlessly asks why everything is so, why things are unfair, why they aren’t unfair in his advantage (even when they are; it’s awfully hard for Hanamiya to see it that way when it’s the case, though), why Imayoshi’s sick of his questions. But he can be fun, snapping at Imayoshi for leaving his socks on the floor instead of in the hamper, for not doing the laundry, for putting sugar in Hanamiya’s morning coffee.  
  
“Whoops,” Imayoshi had said. “My mistake.”  
  
“Your fault, you mean,” Hanamiya had said, and damn if his pout isn’t the cutest, if it hasn’t made every last bit of this all worthwhile.


	47. imahana, i must resist

The only reason Imayoshi had formed a streetball team first was because he’d graduated first. That’s it; he’d had the opportunity while Hanamiya had been bogged down with cram school classes, good practice for the test (still unnecessary, though he’s not taking any chances, unlike Seto) to get into a national university, his actual school basketball team, actual schoolwork, the social functions his mother makes him attend.   
  
That doesn’t mean that since his is delayed they’re going to have to play catch up to Imayoshi’s shitty team of bygone high schoolers Hanamiya had been glad to see graduate and get out of the way. His class is better than Imayoshi’s, anyway; he has better players to choose from and it’s easy to convince them to play together. Some of them may be smart but they’re still relatively simple compared to Hanamiya, so that’s taken care of quickly.  
  
“What are you planning, hmm?” says Imayoshi, in a voice like he knows exactly what’s going on.  
  
Hanamiya scowls and kisses him, hoping to make him forget it, but he’s going to find out eventually. “Meet me at the courts between the arcade and the bar. Bring your streetball buddies.”  
  
“Oh? A competition?”  
  
“Wait and see; I’m not telling you.”  
  
And so they’ve assembled, as they are; Nebuya and Hayama and Hayakawa the starting forwards (loud, obnoxious, hopefully more to the other team than they are to Hanamiya) and Nakamura the other starting guard. They’re a perfect match for Imayoshi’s team, height and offensive skill to knock down the paper walls of nonexistent defense on that shitty squad, a decent defense of their own to take care of the admittedly-well-constructed offense.   
  
“I must resist the urge to debase myself,” says Imayoshi. “I reckon we’ll have a tough time against this squad, boys.”  
  
It’s not like Hanamiya’s looking for praise, even though this sound suspiciously sarcastic for his liking. Still, it’s good to be acknowledged by Imayoshi, not as someone who’s going to do something that will lead somewhere someday, but as someone who’s here, right now, ready to put up a fight, more than that. A challenger who’s going to win, a team that’s deeper (Hara and Matsumoto on the bench) and a team that wants it. They don’t need national television, that kind of exposure, to arrive. They’re already here; Imayoshi doesn’t look all that scared but then he never does. And, as they set up for the tipoff, he’s fucking about to be.


	48. akakuro, broken company

Time has expired; the game is over; the score is perfect. They are invincible, as foreseen, as known to Akashi the whole time. The clock has run out; the buzzer has sounded; the one question has been answered. Akashi has broken Kuroko, broken him with a cruel twist, through the arrows in the back of his friend, the boy with the so-called unbreakable spirit. It’s beautiful to see, the falling dominoes, the fire spreading along the trail of gasoline. Kuroko, burned off, skin falling away. A phoenix, rising into Akashi’s arms.  
  
For Kuroko, hiding just out of reach, the farthest fruit, all of the classic allure, has fallen; he has broken and to the victor go the spoils. Kuroko has been broken, a stupid wild horse, and so he is now Akashi’s. And indeed, he lets Akashi come to him; he stares at him with tear-glassed eyes, as if he cannot believe, he does not believe, that this is some horrible nightmare. As if his brain cannot wrap itself around this.  
  
“Stop trying,” Akashi coos. “I’ve stopped trying long ago.”  
  
He has broken, been splinted to heal in the wrong position, twisted; his growth is warped, wrong. No one seems to notice, but deep within him there’s something warpped wrong, disguised as right. Kuroko’s the only one who can see that, and now Akashi sees it reflected back in him, like they're twins, those who cannot gain, those who have lost without losing.   
  
“Come and kiss me.”  
  
Kuroko does not. Akashi steals a kiss, anyway, from his lips that do not give, until they start to move, wet and soft and warm against Akashi’s. Good, good, progress. He was Akashi’s to break; he is Akashi’s to have now.  
  
He submits, eventually; Akashi admits he had miscalculated. He had not broken Kuroko thoroughly enough, or perhaps he’d pecked at the wound too soon, alerted Kuroko’s defenses while they’d been not quite exhausted, still running on adrenaline. But no matter; he had broken Kuroko enough to break him the rest of the way, as the buzzer had sounded, his last opportunity. The fruit of his labors, so to speak, to bring his own metaphor to a fuller circle closing in on itself. They kiss, Kuroko’s desperation sour like rot, like old citrus, against Akashi’s tongue, but the sweetest taste there is, in many ways. For at last, Akashi has company in his brokenness.


	49. akamayu, blank slate

Mayuzumi presents himself as a blank slate. It makes it easier to go unnoticed, even when he doesn’t want it (which is rarely; it’s nice to get away with reading or texting in the back of the classroom while everyone else is paying attention to their schoolwork or getting called out by the teacher for not doing it). It’s also easier for others to project what they want to see onto him, themselves, the kind of person they want him to be, closed or open or smart or stupid or good or bad, useless binaries. When you’re liminal, you’re blank; you’re nothing; you slide from end to end like a loose skateboard wheel up and down the half-pipe.   
  
He is nothing, and that is the way of the world; even if he wants to change it he can’t. But Akashi is above the established order, the hierarchy of Rakuzan; he lets the third-years, the centerpiece gears of the Rakuzan machine, walk, as if he’s daring them to. Mayuzumi’s not going to fall for that shit, but maybe he has.  
  
“I wonder if you can do something for me,” Akashi says.  
  
Mayuzumi wants to say Akashi’s probably not wondering at all; he knows if Mayuzumi can or can’t already, whatever it is. But he waits instead; he’s not going to let Akashi think he’s gotten a rise out of him (the kid looks like he’s already had ten lifetimes’ worth of smug, self-satisfied victories; Mayuzumi’s going to make him work for whichever ones Akashi wants against him).  
  
And he reaches into Mayuzumi’s nothing and pulls out something, forms the shadow into a ball of darkness, clear against light (the metaphor loses Mayuzumi somewhere, a little too self-important, but if it means playing time it’s not a terrible tradeoff to make).  
  
The other third-years don’t bother him, either because they hadn’t noticed him in the first place, because they don't consider him enough of one of them to call him a traitor, or because Akashi’s threatening them. Mayuzumi doesn’t really care which option it is, though he is a bit curious. But he’s not going to give Akashi the satisfaction of asking him, letting him think he’s got that much power.  
  
But Akashi’s victories are his victories; that’s a shared satisfaction, one that Mayuzumi will relinquish. And he’ll also relinquish himself to Akashi’s arm around his back, Akashi’s eyes staring into his, the smile and the flirtatious remarks. The kiss that’s long overdue, the satisfaction that’s shared evenly this time.


	50. imahana, hockey au

Hanamiya’s been targeted since he was a kid, since he’d first taken the ice. He’d started out a little small for his age before sprouting, looked like an easy target. So he’d learned to trip, to slew-foot and make it look like an accident, how to make the other kids look like divers and whiners when they fell to the ice, cracked their knees against the floor or their heads on the boards or their elbows against the goalpost. Just an accident, kids are clumsy, especially the ones who can’t skate well. They’re the easiest of targets, crashing on their own, without Hanamiya helping them fall.  
  
So he thinks he ought to be forgiven for brushing off other people targeting him due to his reputation of scoring at will, the team records for all-time he’d shattered in half a season.  
  
“They’re big, Makoto-kun.”  
  
“I can handle that,” says Hanamiya, thinking maybe he should toe-drag his skate all up Imayoshi’s bare leg, see if it helps him get the fucking picture.   
  
Imayoshi didn't know him when he was a smaller kid, when his hair had looked ridiculous sticking out of a helmet, when he’d had to tuck his sweater in and it still kept falling out. Imayoshi doesn’t know what he’s capable of, even if he’s figured out Hanamiya’s the one causing all of these kinds of strange accidents on their team and on others, the things that don't seem to just happen around him, the things that aren’t quite coincidences, the patterns that are there if you look close enough (though Imayoshi’s got to be looking really close because his eyesight’s really that shitty).   
  
(He still lets Imayoshi hold his hand, once they’ve washed off the stench of their old gloves, the sweat and the locker-room stink. That’s okay, but that’s got nothing to do with this.)  
  
Imayoshi takes the faceoff at center ice, and Hanamiya can see the fucker coming, huge muscles and probably taller than Hanamiya in skates when he’s not wearing any shoes. Hanamiya sticks out his hip, his stick, whirls, and cross-checks him. He yells, wordless, gripping his left wrist; the refs weren’t paying any attention at all, following the play of the puck.  
  
“He fucking cross-checked me!”  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Hanamiya. “I think you may have misstepped, fallen into my stick…these things happen. I didn’t mean to.”  
  
He widens his eyes; the ref yells for someone to escort this kid off the ice, and Hanamiya smirks.  
  
“Kidding, dumbass,” he mutters under his breath.  
  
“I guess you had him,” says Imayoshi, afterward.  
  
“Don’t doubt me again.”


	51. imahana, assistant au

Well, it looks like Imayoshi is pretty good at what he does. That’s no surprise, though; there’s a reason Hanamiya had offered him a job as his assistant, and he’s still kind of pissed (okay, really pissed) that Imayoshi had turned it down and he’s still stuck with Furuhashi, loyalty and shitty excuses about forgetting he’d had his phone in his hand when he’d fallen into the pool and there went all of the emails that were supposed to be sent out. Imayoshi had seemed more intelligent, more cunning, able to come up with better excuses and smart enough to not even try and just get the work done when it had to be.  
  
Hanamiya’s got no idea why Imayoshi had applied, turned the job down, and become a lawyer, working on the opposing counsel for this large contract on which Hanamiya’s client expects to come out looking like the winners. It’s a good deal for everyone, even cut the way Hanamiya wants it, but with Imayoshi—well, that might make things more difficult. Not that Hanamiya’s not up to the challenge.  
  
(Still, why had Imayoshi turned him down? Why give up a cushy assistant’s job, good pay, good company, good benefits, for the stress and annoyance of dealing directly with contract law? If Imayoshi had been lazy enough to apply for an assistant’s job—had it all been an inside thing? Had he been able to get the dirt on Hanamiya? Had they let their guards down at the firm? They never do, but perhaps—no.)  
  
Imayoshi asks Hanamiya to go to lunch with him, and Hanamiya agrees. Better to keep an eye on him there as best he can.  
  
“Why did you apply to be my assistant if you weren’t interested?” Hanamiya asks him.  
  
“Oh, no, I was,” says Imayoshi. “But I reckon going on a date with your boss is a conflict of interest.”  
  
Dates? Who said anything about dates? “What?”  
  
“Didn’t I make myself clear?” says Imayoshi. “You and me, here, this is a date.”  
  
“Dating the opposing counsel is more of a conflict of interest,” says Hanamiya. “Don’t you want me to bend you over my desk and fuck you?”  
  
It’s perhaps unnecessarily lewd, but it makes Imayoshi raise his eyebrows; it’s not something Hanamiya had been thinking about, but, well. Now that he is, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Maybe it’s even kind of hot.


	52. imahana, 1cm

One centimeter. One goddamn centimeter, and Hanamiya will finally have caught up with Imayoshi. That’s all it is, a far cry from their early middle school days, and yet it just won’t happen. Hanamiya measures himself every week, bare feet; his heigh doesn’t budge even a fraction of a millimeter. Goddamn it, is his body going to fail him now?  
  
“You know, height isn’t everything,” Imayoshi says, as a greeting.  
  
Hanamiya bites the inside of his cheek so hard it bleeds.  
  
This is worse than Seto calling him short; at least Seto’s really tall. Imayoshi’s height is barely noticeably different; most people would not see the two of them, standing a bit apart, and say Imayoshi’s taller, or if he is, even by that much. It’s the width of Hanamiya’s thumb; it’s the tiniest fraction of how much his body has already grown, from a helpless baby to this. 179, an inherently flawed number. Not quite 180, not quite at that particular benchmark, not quite Imayoshi’s height. Hanamiya lies, smooth tongue; he says he’s 180 and people believe him. No one (except maybe that creepy Seirin girl) has eyes with measuring sticks inside of them; no one can tell he’s lying. Imayoshi can, though.  
  
“Height isn’t everything,” he’d said, back in middle school when Hanamiya was the backup, when the coach had disapproved of his shorter stature—for a fucking point guard, for a first-year.   
  
Height doesn’t mean he can’t score; it doesn’t mean he can’t pass or steal; he’s closer to the ground to trip people. Now that he’s older, he’s not even that fucking short anymore. He’s a good bit taller than the average man; he might be short for a professional basketball player, the guys in the Americas or Europe or China, but he’s not even among the shortest in the Japanese leagues.   
  
But those kinds of comparisons don’t matter; the more immediate concern is beating Imayoshi. Hanamiya’s beaten him at basketball, bested him at his own position, muscled him out of the one. Hanamiya’s kissed him first, pulled him closer, but always pulled him down. Always, Imayoshi’s eyes are sloping down, just slightly. Just once (and by just once Hanamiya means fucking always, thank you very much) Hanamiya wants to be the one on top, the one in front by default, the one who you look at and see power. And even if it’s half a fucking centimeter, he’ll lord it over Imayoshi, because God knows Imayoshi’s lorded this one remaining centimeter over him for too goddamn long.


	53. garciraki, the least they can do

The first time Masako ever heard about Alex Garcia, it was a badly-translated article on the WNBA her teammates passed around the locker room. A quite, probably mangled, but with the basic gist of “We play harder than the men in worse facilities; the least they can do is give us bigger basketballs.”  
  
Masako is quite inclined to agree; it’s something she often thinks but never wants to voice when she’s hanging out with her friends from the men’s team, something they don’t really seem to get. Yes, they have the same national facilities, but the opportunities outside of officially-sanctioned tournaments for women are pitiful. If you can get paid to play somewhere, it’s for a tiny fraction of what a man would be played who’s at a similar level. The top women’s leagues have fewer teams than the top men’s leagues; the shot in the dark is even less accurate; the margins for error are nonexistent. And then there’s getting used to playing with a different-sized ball, being good enough for men’s tournaments at a younger age and then switching to the smaller ball, having it feel awkward and too light in your hands, adjusting your throw. It’s not as much of an inconvenience as it could be; it’s really just another item on a long list but everything counts; every little bit that they can muscle in is a victory that could maybe lead to something else down the road, not a victory for them but for the next generation, the one after, the one after that, while the men can grow things in half a generation.   
  
When Masako first meets Alex, she thinks she’s heard of her somewhere; it’s not until later she remembers the article, the quote, the way it matches with the determination, hard and light and strong as stainless steel in Alex’s eyes, behind her glasses. She watches Alex play and realizes she’s playing with a men’s regulation size basketball, not surprising, the same size as the only ones Masako’s used since she’d started coaching high school boys.  
  
Masako asks Alex, and she laughs. “Maybe not such a wise thing to say at the time. They kept saying I wasn’t grateful for the opportunity I’d been given. Like if I’d wanted a playing career I should shut up and take the scraps.”  
  
The laugh is bitter; she doesn’t have to say any more. Masako knows the feeling all too well, the frustration, the self-doubt, the maybe I should be grateful, the brutality of basketball slamming the door on every woman but for a few you could count on an injured hand. She wraps her arms around Alex’s waist; neither of them needs assurance of how much they’re worth, not at this point; their wounds have long since healed. But bitterness remains, a tidal pool far ashore. Alex squeezes Masako’s hand, the hands that are just as comfortable with this as they are receiving a pass that’s right on target.


	54. imahana, ever any doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> violence

If there was ever any doubt which way Imayoshi was going (that is, if he believes in an afterlife, which is debatable at best) this is what seals the deal. True, he hadn’t tried enough in middle school; he’d said things, done things, in high school; he’s made mistakes and he’s had regrets. That’s not enough to send him to hell on its own, or if it is, then there’s going to be no one in heaven anyway, so who gives a damn.   
  
He could have taken the coward’s way out, quit basketball because of the physical strain and lack of financial reward awaiting him and become the boring sort of salaryman who smokes on the terrace and looks like he’s hiding something but it’s only ever that he’s behind on his credit card bill or something, the boring kind of shameful secret. At least, that’s what he jokes about; it probably never would have been enough for him, but he could have had it if he’d let it happen to him, if he’d tried for it at all.  
  
That would have landed him in hell; Imayoshi’s no fool. He’s not going to search back on the twisting road of his life to find out where the sweet little boy he’d once been (ha!) had gone wrong, turned out rotten to the core. People like to simplify it, call one thing or another the turning point, but there were so many along the way that there isn’t one distinguishing, definitive; it’s everything at once. Maybe a lot of those things had had to do with Hanamiya but, well. Now it certainly does.  
  
He’s no wishy-washy waffler; this is the path he’s on and he’s going to commit to hell cheerfully, with a long kiss on Hanamiya’s mouth, something he’s going to enjoy. What’s the use in pointless repenting when you don’t mean much of it anyway? What’s the use in an empty apology to an entity that may not exist? Especially when he plans on doing so much more in the future, the knife gripped in his hands, twisting with a surety that Hanamiya doesn’t have. He’s troubled, a blustery dark, a gale force; Imayoshi’s a much simpler man; the world is as it is. There’s no use complicating it when there are tasks to complete, when the sooner they finish the sooner it’s just them, the sooner they can forget (or not) the acts they commit and condone, the sooner they can enjoy the hell they’re headed to together.


	55. kagahimu, amazing

It’s been a long time since the first time Tatsuya tried to let Taiga go, much less long than when he’d realized that he just can’t, not really. He can verbally loosen any bonds he thinks are there, any way he’s holding Taiga back, any way that Taiga sees. But Taiga never sees them; if they’re holding him he tears right through before he notices them cutting his skin, leaving behind only Tatsuya’s thoughts chained up, his image of Taiga that he’s not able to let go of. Taiga, young, looking at Taiga like he’d just given him the key to a new dimension; Taiga, young and trusting; Taiga, older and betrayed; Taiga, taller than him by far and Tatsuya has to almost crane his neck, asking Tatsuya to kiss him and Tatsuya saying yes; Taiga, asleep next to Tatsuya, the air conditioner broken and the heat wave unbroken outside, the dry heat they’d grown up in together but forgotten.  
  
And then there is Taiga, on the court now, so sure of his own abilities as only he has the right to be, as only he can be. A dunk, a block, a steal, maybe three or four seconds on the shot clock, that insane vertical (the ridiculous deep jumper he’s developed out of nowhere, maybe just because he fucking can), the stat lines people have almost stopped being impressed by because Taiga’s just that good no one is even surprised by the gaudy numbers, the deep playoff runs, the way he hauls his decent squad to a top seed in the east over better-selected, better-developed teams.   
  
It hurts not manning him, but Tatsuya’s not big enough; he’s not strong enough. It hurts to admit is, as critical as he is of his own skills. It hurts to say he’s not good enough to go one-on-one with Taiga in a game like this, that Taiga’s playing on a parallel plane, even without the zone or any type of special thing he has to kick down the door to; it’s more like he’s on the other side of a door that’s closed to Tatsuya, and Tatsuya’s stuck in a place with low ceilings and keeps bumping his head. Taiga is free to spread and stretch his greater size, his amazing wingspan; he could fly ten feet off the ground and stand up straight if he wanted to in the place he is.   
  
“You’re amazing,” Tatsuya whispers, pressing kisses to the side of Taiga’s face; he doesn’t need to mention stats (they don’t talk about stats) or the Bulls’ lopsided win, the three Knicks starters Taiga had dunked on, multiple times, when he’d blown past Tatsuya with the ball, paling in comparison to when Tatsuya had gotten past him, something that had come completely from how well he knows Taiga and a little bit of luck, nothing like superior, overpowering skill.  
  
“You’re amazing, too,” Taiga says, and for some reason Taiga believes it. Tatsuya holds on tighter.


	56. imahana, body snatcher au

“I’m leaving this body for real. It’s getting really boring.”  
  
“That’s nice,” says Imayoshi, flipping the page in his book.  
  
“Are you even paying attention?”  
  
“Of course I am, but you said this yesterday, and the day before, and last week.”  
  
“I really mean it,” says Hanamiya.  
  
He glances at himself in the mirror. Himself, what a concept; he’s been living this person’s life for too long, identifying too much with him, the so-called real Hanamiya. Ten years is not such a long time in the so-called life of a specter, waiting for someone to let them in; it’s long enough, the years formative enough, that it’s pushed and prodded him to fit more snugly in this entrapment of a body. This, asshole pretending to be nice guy, had been a better situation to end up in than his last few. This body, though, has stopped feeling comfortable, started feeling too snug, as they do when the host’s brain begins to rebel, when it becomes more trouble when it’s worth.  
  
Besides, he’s sick of being such an asshole. For all of Hanamiya’s good points, intelligence, charm, those amusing eyebrows, he is, and boringly so. And being Hanamiya means being all of those things, letting them infect him a little bit, being not only the parasite but a little bit on the receiving end.   
  
(Of course, the best thing about Hanamiya is his asshole boyfriend, who’s not a specter but knows too much.)  
  
“You gonna hook up with me in my new body?” says Hanamiya.  
  
“I’m not interested in cheating on my boyfriend.”  
  
“I’m your boyfriend, not him,” says Hanamiya, gesturing down at his body.  
  
Imayoshi looks him up and down, the only indication a flick of his head. It’s as if he’d disagree but he’s not in the mood for a fight, and Hanamiya grinds his teeth. That’s not how it’s supposed to go with them. Maybe he should find a new body; maybe he should leave this one soon and float invisible through the air for a bit before he finds someone different, a bit nicer. Someone who at least doesn’t have asshole friends like Hanamiya does (literally, it’s all of them). Someone older, or a different gender, or maybe neither, but a clear demarcation that this new someone he’s going to be is someone else. Not the asshole he is right now.  
  
“If you’re cute enough, maybe we can go on a date when you’re in your new body,” says Imayoshi.


	57. cursed love triangle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (kuroko<->taiga<->tatsuya)

Kuroko knows they don’t love each other, and Taiga’s grateful for it. There’s not much in the way of pretending, effort; he’ll admit it’s nice to wake up with someone in his arms who’s receptive to a kiss on the cheek, who enjoys being pulled closer, who will walk with him to get fast-food, though not without a remark about how bad it is for him. It’s easier, because Tatsuya wouldn’t have said something like that. Taiga doesn’t remember to stop taking the pickles off his burger every time.   
  
Tatsuya loves him, and he loves Tatsuya, but Tatsuya doesn’t love him like that. Every time Taiga tries to move closer, Tatsuya demurs, pulls away. It’s different from the way Tatsuya lets Taiga hug him even when he’s angry, from the way he regrets and looks as if Taiga shouldn’t when he lets Taiga a little further back in. They don’t have to be polite with each other; it would be easier if Tatsuya just said something (Taiga’s shit at hiding things; even Kuroko knows without him saying; like this there’s room for false hope that Taiga can’t entirely squash). But this is new, an offshoot far away from the crumbled foundations of brotherhood, something that might not have the chance to grow among the ruins.   
  
And maybe Taiga’s the one who’s not good enough; he’s not good enough to exist, to play basketball (which to Tatsuya is almost the exact same thing) without hurting Tatsuya, involuntarily burning him when he gets too close. Taiga wants that least of all; he can stomach his own cowardice, the refusal to come out and ask Tatsuya (another reason he’s not worthy, probably) if it means Tatsuya’s free, happy. Yeah, a lot of that has to do with Tatsuya’s own baggage, but shoving it in his face, however unintentionally, before he’s ready to deal with it, isn’t going to be helpful to anyone.   
  
Kuroko watches Taiga watching Tatsuya; he watches Tatsuya later the same night, at the same party, his pretty fingers clutching the neck of a beer bottle. And Kuroko kisses him, fierce and harsh like he’s telling Taiga to just stop, to just give in. Maybe they don’t love each other yet; maybe their friendship isn’t as solid as everyone seems to think it is; maybe it’s a bad idea to put everything on the rebound from a one-sided love. Even if he feels something, he'll never be able to make it work with Kuroko, either; there's too much tied up in this already.


	58. imahana, guaranteed victory

If doing your best guaranteed victory, then the world might be a paradox. Especially in the realm of something like high school basketball, with five a side, full of the determined kind of person like Wakamatsu or Sakurai who feels as if he’s taken a personal defeat if he doesn’t do his best (and that holds more weight for him than the team victory, but that kind of player is easy to motivate and manage). There are other kinds, too; there are people like Imayoshi, and Susa and Aomine, who know that sometimes if you try your best you lose and sometimes if you don't try your best you win, even if the other team is trying harder. If it were based on effort, then there wouldn’t be a reason to play the games, just as if it were based on raw talent, the way the team looks on paper, they could just looka t the court and come to a consensus on who's better.  
  
But then there are the players like Hanamiya, somewhere between the two or somewhere off the scale, neither and both in terms of effort, success, and victory. Imayoshi reckons it might have something to do with the way Hanamiya’s always off playing his own sort of game, by his own rules, as if the usual ones were too boring and didn't have enough stress and physical harm. A sport like boxing or hockey would be terrible for him, a sport where hitting is encouraged. It would bore Hanamiya half to death. He’s like a kid who only does drugs because they’re illegal, because that’s half the high on its own.  
  
Hanamiya doesn’t try quite so hard as he could to win basketball games. His strategy is good; he’s got one of the deepest benches around at his disposal, and he’s got the talent to score at will. But that kind of victory has become boring in and of itself, when not used as a means to an end. He gets his victory by seeing others in defeat—injured, will broken, infuriated, fouled out, regardless of the scoreboard. That’s what he tries for, and because he’s the only one playing that game he almost always wins by default.  
  
It would be wrong to call it cute, but it’s pretty fucking fascinating, if Imayoshi’s being honest with himself. Fascinating, and as close to cute as Hanamiya will let him say, at least.


	59. akakuro, mobius

No mercy, that’s a creed running under his lips, against the back of his teeth, through his veins like oxygen, binding better to his blood than any chemical. There is no need to show mercy; mercy is the stuff of people who are soft, softer than Akashi should be. They think he’s like an insect, a crustacean, soft on the inside, an exoskeleton, but he’s got two sets. Two sets of one eye, two sets of skills, particular to a side of him, two sets of skeletons. He shows no mercy to those who might deserve it, but no one deserves that. It’s not something he’s ever been given, and he’s done all the so-called right things. Or perhaps because he will not give he does not get; perhaps (the most likely option) there is no fairness in life.   
  
Kuroko has had to learn that the hard way, that the kind and the righteous are the martyred, the shot and slain and bloodied, the desperate. They are that way because they’ve got nothing, and with nothing comes nothing to lose. Admirable, perhaps, but that’s the most backhanded of compliments, the most opposite of tennis volleys. There’s a reason Akashi prefers basketball, a reason someone as straightforward and with such a sense of how things should be as Kuroko prefers it, too. Different reasoning, same conclusion—the only thing that matters is the result; that’s been ingrained into Akashi since before he can remember.  
  
And the result is two of them, different men, staring each other down, neither giving in, neither showing mercy. Akashi’s comes from acceptance of the way the world is, an aptitude for bending and twisting things to his will; Kuroko’s comes from a dogged determination to set things the way he considers is only right, forcing the world to crack under his knuckles. Both of them have won their battles, but are they really on opposite sides anymore? Is this, the two of them, just another battle, one worldview or the other, neither showing mercy?   
  
(Only fools equate mercy with compassion; there is compassion without mercy, a kiss with no submission, appraising one another as a threat without acquiescence either way.)  
  
Perhaps this is just a mobius strip, an edge with no end, infinity on paper, opposite sides being no side at all. Or perhaps it is simple, but thinking is only a distraction from the two gazes, equally firm, equally unyielding.


	60. hanamiya + seirin, dirty

Victory does not come in a void, but people speak as if it does. As if the score sheet is the end of all discussion, never mind what it meant. Whether the opponent was weak or strong, whether the game was decided early or late. That all falls away, just the small word next to the matchup mattering so much later, to those who have forgotten or who never knew in the first place. Victory in a vacuum is all that’s remembered, but it’s not even what matters.  
  
It’s not what losers tell themselves after the fact; it’s always that they’d played hard, that they’d had some kind of moral victory, that someone else’s victory was cheapened because they’d tried harder or something. It’s so they can feel better about themselves. It’s that mocking “let's have fun!” from Kiyoshi Teppei, of all people, the one who knows the most about losing of anyone on that team. He’s at least the only one smart enough to have learned from the past, except part of him apparently hasn’t. He’s stuck with this, this team of moral victorians, moral crusaders, thinking that on their terms a fun game is what’s a victory, a so-called clean effort.  
  
They’re all already dirty, their moral victories taking precedence over their own hunger for victory, their self-contradictions (as if, even Kiyoshi aside, they’re fucking saints). They think they’re so above it all, as if they can win by not playing. Please, Hanamiya’s already mastered that; they’re not going to beat him at his own not quite basketball game. Like they have some sort of mental edge, as if.   
  
Victory is when you keep the other side from getting what they want. It’s the classic tale of protagonist and antagonist, conflicting goals, each trying to thwart each other. Whether Hanamiya’s on one side or the other, who’s the focus of the narrative, that doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant to the fact that Hanamiya’s going to be the one who’s out on top, victorious. This is no scoreboard in the logs, no simple basket differential. Seirin will take this and claim self-righteous moralism; Hanamiya’s not going to let them. He will beat them; he will crush the spirits from their throats, their chests. He has done it beofre; they are perhaps more resilient now; that only makes his job a little bit harder. It’s still very possible, and even if it wasn’t he’d do it anyway.


	61. aokuro, moving on

Daiki tries; he really does. He’ll move on to someone new, someone different, someone not like Tetsu, and it’ll work for a while. He’d fooled himself into thinking he could see Ryou as more of a friend, that he and Taiga were equally matched holding hands as they were holding a basketball between them, that Tatsuya—name a syllable different—would somehow be different. But it would all come back, one misplaced word, one blow glancing off his chest, intentional or not (with Tatsuya it had definitely been intentional, but that’s just who he was, who he is) and it would scrape away the shoddy paint job, the makeup coverup of the deep ink of the tattoo on his heart he can’t remove. It's all Tetsu; that’s where it all comes back to. Tetsu’s disapproving look, Tetsu’s small hand, Tetsu’s quiet voice, the shape of Tetsu, the arch of his back, book in one hand and water bottle in the other, Tetsu’s fucking adorable bedhead. Tetsu, Tetsu, Tetsu; the future loops back to the past and Daiki can’t do shit about it.  
  
Tetsu's better at moving on, but Tetsu’s better at closing himself off from the past; Tetsu’s better at cutting his losses instead of getting close to bleeding out the way Daiki has. Daiki used to think that maybe Tetsu hadn’t moved on, that he’d been storing bitterness closed off too tightly in a vault, that somewhere Daiki would find the key. But it’s like the second zone, a gateway Daiki’s not privy to unless Tetsu lets him, if it’s even there at all anymore, if that love hasn’t died and fossilized, the misshapen and unrecognizable coal that burns the fire in Tetsu's heart.  
  
Maybe it’s already polluted the atmosphere; maybe all the traces that Tetsu had ever loved him are gone from his body, his mind, his heart. Maybe Daiki’s just some kind of fucking loser, left here alone with the feelings he can’t let go of; the tide’s gone out and the barrier island’s moved away and he’s sticking out of the ocean he’s about to drown in, the feelings he should have let pass long ago. There’s no way to hope that the course will reverse; he can only keep pretending to move on. To fall in love, for the protective coating to be scraped away once again to reveal the old feelings, distorted and mangled but very permanent.


	62. imahana, catboy!makoto

Makoto was raised by a rich family, given food infused with vitamins such that even when Shouichi had taken him in and he was violent, refused to speak half the time (only to remind Shouichi that he wasn’t like those other cats, the ones who couldn’t or wouldn’t speak, traumatized or stupid as he’d called them), his ears and tail had been just as glossy as perhaps they’d been back then. Makoto had shone in the sunlight he’d napped in,lying on his back, tail twitching, and then he’d sense Shouichi and sit up and glare as if to tell Shouichi to stop spying on him.  
  
It’s awfully hard to spy when they live in a studio apartment, when it’s the only thing Shouichi can afford what with rent and what with all the doting on Makoto he does. He could tell Makoto to do without, for a while; he could give him a little less food, some of the cheaper stuff that’s perfectly adequate, but—Makoto deserves better; he deserves to be the picture of preening and spoiled that he is. Even if Shouichi’s getting himself stuck in a place, even if it would be better in the long run to have a bigger place, with room for another cat, a companion for Makoto during Shouichi’s long days at work, a bigger bed where they could fit without their feet dangling off the end, one of them invariably squished between the other and the wall.   
  
Makoto complains, but it’s because he’s always dissatisfied with everything, ungrateful; were they in a palace he would find something wrong with the food, with the size of the vast lawns, with the attitude of the servants. He wrinkles his nose at things; he is easily jealous when Shouichi talks on the phone with a friend or a colleague, plopping himself down in Shouichi’s lap, getting in his face, or sulking and making Shouichi come to him. Makoto always finds ways to amuse himself here, with this; he is hardly wanting. Shouichi doesn’t need more for himself, either, though a few more luxuries would be nice. Nice, but not necessary; just him and Makoto and these few square meters are more than enough, as it is. But still, Makoto—rich, spoiled, lovely cat that he is, deserves a little more, a golden pillow to lay his head, a silver spoon for his mouth, and Shouichi wants to be the one to give it to him.


	63. aosaku, valentine

Ryou’s the writer. Daiki likes poetry, the words that sometimes make sense and sometimes don’t, the metaphors that get overly-pretentious in a way he actually likes but his classmates scoff at and say they don’t get. He doesn’t get all of it, either, but it’s fun to turn over turns of phrase in his head, figure out how to spin them like a basketball when he’s staring up at the sky, squinting in the sunlight from the school roof, the surface hot against his arms.   
  
Valentine’s Day means Ryou’s chocolate, homemade, sweet, probably molded into different shapes because Ryou’s not one for doing things halfway or less than twice the effort needed; for him nothing is worth doing if he can’t devote his single-minded determination to it, and, well, Daiki can’t say he’s not pleased with the result, the beautiful art and careful writing, the slick shots on a quick release, the passes every bit as sudden and forward to Daiki’s waiting hands, the expertly-crafted bento boxes, delicious and packed with the vitamin list Coach gives them and few of them pay attention to other than downing a fortified protein shake every once in a while.  
  
Valentine’s Day means Daiki should do something for Ryou, too; technically he’s got White Day, too, but why wait? Daiki’s no good at showing affection in so many words, just with gestures, hugs and arms around and strong passes, praise for Ryou’s good work on the court and in the kitchen. But that’s not enough; he needs Ryou to know; he wants to do something of him. Effort isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but Daiki still wants to put some in.  
  
They’ve read love poems in class, drenched with cliches (but from before they were cliches, which doesn’t make them sound any better to Daiki) and sweet images. He’s read some online, shitty and trite little greeting-card things about flowers colored wrong. Ryou always complains about them, but then again isn’t that a challenge?  
  
He stays over in Ryou’s dorm room the night of the thirteenth; they wake with the alarm clock on talk radio and Ryou rolls over, always grumpy in the mornings.  
  
“Roses are red; violets are blue. You can do whatever you want to me. Please do,” says Daiki.  
  
Ryou makes a grumbling sort of noise in his throat. “Go back to sleep.”  
  
“Your wish is my command,” says Daiki.  
  
He thinks, hazily, about sweet chocolates and apologies, and closes his eyes again.


	64. aokaga, stupid in love

All of this is pretty stupid, and it has been since they’d set out on this, whatever it is. Journey, voyage, if you’re being lofty, if you’re Aomine and you’re good at metaphors. Kagami isn’t, in either of his primary languages; he just knows that they’ve been stupid for a long time. Stupid in love with each other, sure, but they’d been stupid about getting together, posturing masculinity and too much trepidation over whether they’d really liked each other or not, long after it became obvious to pretty much everyone that they did. Everyone except the two of them, who’d been too busy being idiots.  
  
And they’d done dumb shit, stayed up too late playing basketball until they’d gotten kicked out of the park; they’d driven cars too fast and too hard, hurled shitty insults at each other until that had turned into actual affection; they’d tried dumb sex stuff that neither of them had really wanted to do but they thought the other might. They hadn’t talked about things clearly enough, just made a billion different assumptions about everything, and that oh so not clever at all saying rolls through Taiga’s head like a basketball down the hill, that it makes them both asses. But they’d known that already, probably.  
  
But maybe it just comes down to how stupid they are, stupid for each other, stupid in love; that’s where everything's stemmed from, the desire to be happy together, not to let go of the image, the need to be around each other, the way hearing Aomine laugh would suck all of the attention away from everything else until Kagami couldn’t look away ten minutes later, the way they’d connect and feel something, like a tug inside of Kagami, the first time they’d kissed and Kagami couldn’t believe they’d waited so goddamn long. Of course, it comes down to that anyway right now, when they’re together like this, when every day Kagami wakes up and feels a stupid smile break out across his face to see Aomine drooling on the pillow next to him, his arm warm tucked over Kagami in some way, keeping him close, the way Kagami wants to be, stupid (neither of them is going anywhere), stupid in stupid love. But if this is stupid, Kagami doesn’t want to be smart; he doesn’t need that shit because this is spectacular; this is exactly where he needs to be.


	65. akamido, can't change the past

It’s much easier to think about Akashi once Midorima accepts that the past cannot be changed. That he regrets—regrets not trying harder, so long ago now (was it really several years?), that he could not accept the way Akashi had changed, this different side of himself that had been there all along but that Midorima had refused to see. It’s easier once he’s relinquished his hold on a power he never had in the first place, when he had stopped trying to move mountains and rivers and repaired shattered dreams of what could have been. What wasn’t, and what wasn’t worth thinking about that hard.  
  
It’s much easier to think about Akashi, even romantically, when he lets go of his old foolish ideals, the thought that the two of them could be simple sweethearts, the only kind of love he’d had much of a concept of, other than his parents’ own dry relationship with each other. It’s easy to let it be complicated, let his regrets and resentment, the acknowledgement that he wasn’t the one to beat Akashi, to show him defeat, to let all of this hover between them like smoke in the air when they sit across the shogi board, pushing tiles in new patterns to yield a familiar result (because some things cannot change, do not change even if and when they can).   
  
And it’s easy, yes, but it makes room for more when Midorima is not letting impossibility and indecision choke him, makes room for Midorima to reach across the board, steady his breath, and catch Akashi’s hand in his own, look at him to tell him that yes, this is absolutely what he means, as if Akashi has any room or reason to be unsure of him.   
  
“Thank you,” Akashi says, a smile widening on his mouth like the first time they’d played each other in shogi and Midorima’s heart constricts when Akashi squeezes his hand.  
  
Their first kiss is hours later; it feels like years, a slow build, hands on hands and hands on shoulders and hands on knees and eyes on eyes, until nose touches nose, and then mouth touches mouth. Midorima’s been imagining this, different ways, different impossibilities, different pasts he can’t change now. But this, like this, right now, is so much better than any closed possibility, than a time too early or too wrong, a time that would split them off from the people they are now.


	66. aokaga, decorations

“You are not keeping this wallpaper,” says Taiga, wrinkling his nose at the wall.   
  
“Um, what?” says Daiki. “It’s fucking wallpaper; who the hell cares?”  
  
He’d thought it was a little bit ugly when he’d moved in himself, but whatever. Home renovation is for people who care too much and have nothing else better to do. He’s got more money than he knows how to use before he even factors in endorsement deals, and if it really still bothered him—if he ever looked at his walls for more than a second, registered the yellow flowers and green stems and brown background for more than a second—then maybe he’d do something about it.  
  
“If you don’t care, I’ll pay for it.”  
  
“Hold on a second,” says Daiki. “This is my house; you’re just moving in.”  
  
“Which makes it my house, too. Like I said, I’ll pay half the bills; I’ll do repairs if you need it; I’ll keep it cleaner than you do. But I am not living in a place with wallpaper like this.”  
  
“What’s wrong with it?”  
  
“You just told me you didn’t care.”  
  
“I don’t want to have to deal with replacing it or painting over it.”  
  
"Just do it on a road trip or something. It’s not that big a deal.”  
  
“If you can live with it until then, you’ll stop noticing it and it won’t be an issue.”  
  
“It’s ugly! How do you not notice it?”  
  
“Do you spend your spare time staring at wallaper? Is this some weird hobby I somehow didn’t know about?”  
  
"I like the walls of my house to be, like. Lighter than this. The darker it is, the smaller the room looks.”  
  
“Who cares how small it looks? You can still fit the same amount of furniture in it,” says Daiki.   
  
How did he end up arguing for this shitty wallaper? He doesn’t care that much, but it’s the principle of the thing, of Taiga moving into his place and making changes, of compromise, of not wanting to give in to Taiga or say he’s right (which he absolutely isn’t, okay).   
  
“Look, the wallpaper goes or I go,” says Taiga and he cannot be fucking serious.  
  
Daiki sighs. “Fine, but you have to take care of all of it/ I don’t want anything to do with the process. You pay for it; you make all the calls. I don’t give a shit.”  
  
Taiga does not deserve to look as fucking smug as he does right now.


	67. garciraki, incidental

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vaguely sexual references

Alex is still asleep when Masako leaves; she’d had excuses, once, slipping from her lips with a wry knowledge that Masako wouldn’t take them and that she didn't really mean them, jet lag and too tired from last night and I don’t need to. It’s harder for Masako to get up and leave her, warm arms, tangled hair, sleepy eyes that can barely see Masako when they’re open. But it gives her room to brush her hair, to put on her suit, simple jewelry, collar adjusted, formal shoes, a way to get into her serious coaching mood before she takes it all off again for morning practice and dons her sweats all day, pulls her hair back, leaves her face of makeup as it is, minimal, sweatproof. This is her game face; she needs it for the world.  
  
She comes back dressed the same, suit, shirt buttoned all the way up, hair a little more tangled but draped behind her, a curtain in the wind. Got to look good for the public transportation crowd, the bus kneeling, letting out exhaust, the salarymen absorbed in their cell phones and newspapers, the parents attempting to corral their children.   
  
Really, for herself, the reflection she catches in the window before she takes out another scouting report, more obscuring words to look through, no real substitute for video. For herself, for Alex; the world can take whatever the hell it wants from her; she’s not giving it anything.   
  
Alex is nearly naked on the couch, sprawled out and sweaty on the blanket that’s probably going to need a wash, even if—Masako’s not usually hot and bothered by this; there’s nothing erotic about it, really, except Alex’s fingers draped over her bare stomach, the curve of her breasts pushed at by gravity, the hair trapped between her shoulders and the blanket, the elastic of her panties halfway turned down, glasses pushed up to the top of her head. Beautiful, sweat sticking to her skin, probably from kicking ass at streetball or going out for a run or things Masako would rather hear Alex tell her than imagine. Masako doesn’t need her suit for this; it’s incidental; she drapes her jacket over the back of the armchair and hears a rustle, the motion of Alex lifting her head, adjusting her glasses.  
  
“Good afternoon.”  
  
“Evening,” says Masako, pushing up her sleeves and smiling. She walks back over to the couch, leans over and kisses Alex hello, the sweat and sports drink stuck to her lips, the shape of her smile.


	68. imahana, bite and swallow

Breaking people is something that comes naturally to Hanamiya, not so naturally that he tires of it in a number of seconds he can count on his hands. There’s a challenge, a necessity; there’s a need to find their weakness and attack them there, where the most damage can be done, where one crack can cascade to the rest, a pressure point, a shatterpoint. There’s something to be said for attacking strength; knocking that down can be devastating in its own way. Knocking out the ace, the first pin, the strongest line of defense, watching the devastation flow. But from another point of view, isn’t that strength a weakness? If it fails, what is left?  
  
Imayoshi doesn’t break people in the same way. He’s smart enough to figure out what they’re hiding, the flaws behind their thin masks. He’d seen Hanamiya’s; he can see other people. He’ll spread despair with a jack-o-lantern grin on his face, but it’s not whittled down to a fine point, jabbing at particulars of someone, something. It just is, the same might and power he surrounds himself with, what had once been Hanamiya now Wakamatsu, Aomine, Susa, broad shoulders and midair blocks, strength and speed. They are like his shields, three facets, all of them somewhat replaceable; he loses his ace and he goes on. Imayoshi will still break you; perhaps it’s even more effective that way. When it’s him on the court, everyone falling in line behind him, none of them outshining him, his top weapon gone and he still hits, demolishes with an arsenal half-empty that he doesn’t even really deplete. There’s no need for him to use all of his tricks; if he can break you one way he won’t overdo it; he’ll just step over your body on the floor.  
  
But there’s no kill like overkill; Hanamiya doesn’t feel the need to restrain his own thirst, for blood, for defeat in their eyes, the broken halves becoming broken shards becoming broken powder ground to dust. There is no kill like overkill, the way Hanamiya grasps the front of Imayoshi’s jacket and kisses him because he means to win. He needs to win; he needs to break Imayoshi before Imayoshi breaks him.  
  
“I think we’re playing different games,” Imayoshi says, into Hanamiya’s mouth before Hanamiya bites and swallows his words.  
  
Hanamiya snarls. It’s his rules, and if Imayoshi wants to forfeit, well, that makes everything a little bit easier.


	69. akakise, swelled head

Kise obeys, because he doesn’t know much better. For now, that’s okay. He’s much easier than Haizaki, who’d disagreed and refused just because he could, unruly and more trouble than he was worth. He’s still better on the court than Kise, but he’s worth less; Kise needs the experience now to be better later. This is a gamble; Akashi will not reap its rewards unrelated to Kise as simply a replacement to Haizaki, but he’s fine with that.  
  
Kise is the weakest; he doesn’t know basketball well enough, feeling his way around, only talent and athleticism and blind luck (which he has more of than Midorima, it seems sometimes) that make things go his way. Crude imitations, he can’t even copy the rest of them yet. He will; Akashi does not need supernatural prescience to see that. The Generation of Miracles are great; Kise is pulled to greatness with them, staying in line, doing what he’s told, playing his heart out, running the plays he can’t even describe, shooting quickly before he knows too much about the shot clock.  
  
Kise’s greatness comes in waves, breakthroughs. There is the game against Haizaki, the game against Kuroko. There are later games, gates he crashes through, and it may all look the same but this is different. This is deliberate; he sees every one of these barriers, invisible as they are. He is the greatest of them, the latest, the slowest burn, gathering a terrifying power in his hands.  
  
“You knew,” Kise accuses. “Even when I couldn’t, you knew.”  
  
“Of course I did,” says Akashi. “But what good would telling you have done?”  
  
Kise pouts. “Could have stopped everyone from being mean to me.”  
  
“I think that’s your personality,” says Akashi.  
  
“Akashichii,” Kise whines.  
  
Akashi looks at him. “Your head’s swelled enough.”  
  
Kise gives Akashi a look, as if to tell him he’s not exactly the most humble. But in either of their cases, humility would be false, a construction for the comfort of others who like equating everyone even when the differences are gulfs instead of split-levels. It’s easier now that they both know this, when Kise’s on the higher level. But even that, even with all of their height difference, it doesn’t make Akashi impossible for Kise to kiss, for him to recognize when Akashi wants one and give it to him. Because, as great as he is, he’s still obedient sometimes, in the best of ways.


	70. aokuro + kagakuro, infidelity

“Where you going?”  
  
The bedside lamp, on Tetsuya’s nightstand, casts a pale glow but Taiga still has to shield his eyes to see Tetsuya, silhouetted, looking like he’s dressed to go out. He smells faintly like the cologne he uses, barely noticeable but there when you know what you’re searching for.   
  
“Don’t worry about me,” says Tetsuya.  
  
Oh, Taiga thinks, and he rolls over and pretends to go back to sleep. It might not fool Tetsuya, but Tetsuya might not care. He’s getting it somewhere else now; it’s somewhere he wants it. It’s the latest passive-aggressive dare, a step over the line. Taiga remembers clearly, because it was just a goddamn week ago, that he’d said, desperation clinging to his voice like barnacles, they could make it work. If they’d stuck it out. And Tetsuya had sighed and taken his hand and stayed, only now he’s leaving.  
  
Aomine's hand on the small of Tetsuya’s back, Aomine looking at Tetsuya, soft eyes. Aomine looking at Taiga, like you worthless piece of shit you can’t please him what are you doing. You don’t belong here. It’s what Taiga used to chalk up as simple jealousy, Aomine wanting but leaving well enough alone, except now Taiga guesses he hadn’t. Or Tetsuya had come to him and offered himself, a sliver, more, all of it, as soon as he could wrench himself from Taiga’s arms, before then. Tetsuya’s already gone, so why doesn’t he just leave?  
  
It’s been a winding road that’s led to this, stops along the way, missteps; this whole thing might have been a misstep, something neither of them could really handle. That doesn’t make it easier for Taiga to let him go; just because it’s not working doesn’t mean his feelings aren’t still what they are. Just because Tetsuya’s getting his fill somewhere else doesn’t mean Taiga doesn’t still hope, fiercely. Hopelessly.  
  
Tetsuya slides into bed in the morning; the sun’s coming up outside the blinds, soft and pale and this time Taiga keeps his eyes all the way open. Tetsuya’s hair is already rumpled; he looks a little tired, a little more relaxed, happy. He looks good.  
  
“Hey, you,” says Taiga, because for a second he forgets it all, except that Tetsuya’s here, in front of him, smiling like this.  
  
“Sleep,” says Tetsuya, pressing a soft kiss to Taiga’s forehead, and Taiga has no reason not to obey him.


	71. momoriko, somewhere dangerous

Girls have to go somewhere dangerous every once in a while. At least, that’s what Satsuki’s always believed; staying in your comfort zone means you never grow, you forget your way home because you never leave. It’s fine to be that way, if you’re so sure of yourself; some people can get away with it. Satsuki’s not particularly interested in finding out if she can.  
  
And this, while not dangerous in the same sense as a street court alone at night, an advanced class of material Satsuki’s only got the vaguest of grasps of, an exhibition match against the strongest team she can find, is still uncharted territory. It feels dangerous, to be here with Riko and know, that unlike the rest of their cordial meetings, this is definitely a date; Riko’s definitely scanning her with her eyes. She’s definitely looking at what she can see, Satsuki’s shoulders out from under the sleeveless top, the necklace that’s pulled out from under, small pendant resting on top of her chest (jewelry is ridiculous; the weight’s stopped making her uncomfortable at least). It’s the same way she’s looking back at Riko, as a challenge (as always) but as a woman, the ruffles on her sleeves, the wide neckline that shows her neck and collarbones off, the pretty little drops in her ears, hair pinned away, the smirk on her lips that Satsuki wants to kiss.   
  
She’s been on dates with Tetsuya before, but those were different; those were things that would definitely lead to nowhere; those were safe because she knew he didn’t really like her and they wouldn’t let each other do much. There are no such safeguards, railings, here. Anything is up for grabs; Satsuki slips her foot out of her sandal. There are just a few centimeters before she brushes up against Riko’s with her toe; Riko’s grip on her glass of wine stutters. (It’s dangerous for Satsuki, but it’s dangerous for Riko, too.) Satsuki’s teeth curl into a grin; she runs her thumb over the top of her own glass, her eyes locked in Riko’s.   
  
They split the bill at the end of the night, and Satsuki pockets her receipt. She takes Riko’s hand as they leave (who cares what part of town they’re in) and pulls her down the street, toward home, toward more unknowns, toward the danger of falling even faster than they are now, accelerating toward possibility.


	72. aohana, truth

Their relationship is not a harmonious one, dissonant with conflicting ideas, conflicting routines. Aomine stays in bed late; Hanamiya sticks to a schedule, up early, up late, working always, except when he’s not. Aomine goes with the sun, with the moon, with his own whims, and if Hanamiya didn’t know any better he’d say he didn’t care. He does say Aomine doesn’t care, just to get him to admit he does, just to get him exasperated enough to shout.  
  
“I don’t know what the hell you want me to say!”  
  
“I want you to answer my questions,” says Hanamiya. “Preferably with truth.”  
  
“You probably already fucking know,” says Aomine, irritation still edging his voice, his body slumping a little bit in resignation.  
  
“Don’t swear; it’s rude.”  
  
“Like you don’t,” says Aomine.   
  
He’s muttering other things under his breath as he walks into the bedroom, things that for the moment Hanamiya chooses not to hear, instead filing them away for future arguments. Stored ammunition won’t lose its value; it’ll only become greater when there’s more of it to draw from, ten conversations instead of one, things he can overwhelm Aomine with until Aomine gives up because he doesn’t want to fight anymore.  
  
It’s not like all they do is fight; if Hanamiya wanted that he wouldn’t need to have a boyfriend and all the time and energy that takes to keep up. The sex is good; the days they get along, when their arguments have less bite, when Hanamiya lets Aomine keep him on the couch and kick his ass at video games, those are better. But without the fights they’d mean less; they’d be another boring thing Hanamiya’s got no time or patience for. Isolated, they aren’t worth much, but when he can feel the tension bubbling underneath them, magma in a volcano whose face is about to be blown off, well. Those are the best times, pretending things aren’t contentious, letting everything sit and fester. Letting it lie until it rears its head, until their voices sound in a dissonance, a cacophony rattling off the doorframes. It’s not one or the other that makes this all worthwhile, it’s the balance; it’s the way they back off before they break; it’s the challenge.   
  
“If that’s how you’re going to be,” says Aomine, sitting up on the bed, running his hands down the front of his own legs.  
  
“That’s how I am,” says Hanamiya, and he waits for Aomine to pull him back on top and kiss his neck.


	73. akaima, stay or go

“You can stay or you can go,” says Akashi, at ease. “But if you stay, then you must submit to me. I’ll deliver results, of course. Absolute results.”  
  
“Only if you’re captain, huh?” says Imayoshi. “Sounds like an inflexible style of leadership to me.”  
  
“Oh?” says Akashi. “Perhaps you’re only comfortable wearing the four; perhaps your own leadership style is inflexible.”  
  
“Not at all,” says Imayoshi, smiling, baring his fangs, white and slightly crooked—Akashi doesn’t flinch, but Imayoshi had had a feeling he wouldn’t (call it intuition or seeing the obvious, whichever appeals more). “I’m just saying.”  
  
“Or perhaps you think you’re entitled. That it’s your right as a third-year.”  
  
Imayoshi has a few choice thoughts on who the entitled one is here, but it’s probably better to keep them to himself right now. “We’ve won without you. If you want to keep pushing people out, well—”  
  
“The first to arrive are not always the best,” says Akashi. “There’s some among your number who are like weeds. Who need plucking out.”  
  
Imayoshi reckons this much is true (he knows it; there are some players in his year that do nothing to secure their spot; Harasawa keeps them around because they're known quantities, even if they’re not known to be much and they’ll never see much playing time anyway). But it’s a little rich of Akashi, no matter how smart he is, to come in and state like this. Or maybe he’s right and it’s Imayoshi’s bias toward the familiar at play, that he feels entitled and threatened—listen to his thoughts, brainwashed by the kid already, shit.  
  
“Can you play forward?”  
  
“You really want me to? That kid in your year Sakurai might be a better swingman.’  
  
“You’re bigger; you can block,” says Akashi. “Or we’ll go with three guards.”  
  
(That’s what Imayoshi had been assuming, anyway, but let the kid think he’d come up with it and he was the only one.) Imayoshi nods.   
  
“So,” he says. “Tell me why I should listen to you. Give me an offer I can’t refuse, Akashi-kun.”  
  
Akashi hums, adjusting the cuffs on his school blazer. And then he stands up, bidding Imayoshi to do the same. Imayoshi waits a minute, then pushes himself to his feet using the table, and waits for Akashi to cross the distance between them. He’s not going to do that, is he?   
  
He does, and well, he’s a damn good kisser. Imayoshi’s seen him on the court; maybe he is one of those people who’s truly good at everything. Let him have the captaincy; Imayoshi takes no shame in knowing he can be bought like this.


	74. aokuro, postapocalypse

They keep tallying their days on the wall, scratched with the end of the rusty knife that’s no good for cooking or killing anymore (remember when there were tetanus shots?) except some days they don’t remember it. It becomes more and more rough, an estimate, a guess; the longer they’re here the harder it is to ignore. There’s no one out there, no one to come and rescue them, because it’s all already gone to shit and they’re too far out. No one’s concerned with exploring when there are mouths to feed; if they do find someone it’ll be someone worse off than they are.  
  
“Maybe we could eat them,” Daiki says, and Tetsu tries to lift up the corners of his mouth.  
  
The truth is, they’d be mostly bone anyway, not worth it, not like a fat deer that eats invasive plants, that mangles with its horns (Daiki had thought the scars from last time would never heal; even now they stretch pale on his belly like his skin’s about to rip open again and something else will gore him this time, only it’ll go in too deep for their primitive tools to bandage—what a way to die, a way he would have been saved five years ago? More? The tally marks stretch on and on; Daiki’s forgotten how to count). As it is, that’s probably their fate, ripped to pieces by an angry herbivore. What luck, what a bright fucking future. Maybe it would have been better if they’d died in the outbreak, in despair but not years of it, a bleak mire that they sink into like quicksand. They could have died cursing they went before there was a cure, perhaps hoping (not likely) that their fates would help find it. Maybe it would have, if they’d gotten sick, but there’s not much else to do around here than sit and imagine; it burns the fewest calories.  
  
“Maybe we should just give up and die,” Daiki says.  
  
“And have this be worth nothing,” Tetsu says, not a question or a statement, both at once, maximum word efficiency, but that was Tetsu before all of this.   
  
“Or wait for it to depreciate until we rot away?”  
  
Tetsu’s hope wavers but stays; Daiki thinks it’s a bit like fool’s gold. Some kind of mineral, pretending to be something that’ll be found out eventually. Still, it’s better than having your hands full of dirt.


	75. aosaku, believe

Ryou apologizes too much. At first it was annoying, a tic like a bug buzzing around Daiki’s ear, a constant reminder that this pipsqueak of a guy who could get rid of the ball so quickly was still around, as if he’d be forgotten if he wasn’t making some kind of noise. Like the opposite of Tetsu, if Daiki was going to make a comparison (and he hates that he has later, because they’re nothing alike, not the same, not opposed, completely separate).   
  
He apologizes for making Daiki lunch, for when Daiki says he likes pork better than chicken, for when his pass goes wrong, for when he shoots a two instead of looking for the three, for when he makes the three, for when he drops something, for when he doesn’t drop something, for being alive. At this point, it’s kind of background noise, but there’s got to be some level on which Ryou believes it; even if he’d just been trying to grab for attention whenever the hell he’d started it he probably believes it a little now.  
  
Daiki wraps his arm around Ryou’s waist at the end of a good half, and tells him the honey lemons were delicious; Ryou beams and only apologizes twice the whole next quarter.   
  
“Is it like you just don’t know?”  
  
“I mean,” says Ryou. “I know. I know I’m good—I just, I get a little nervous. If I don’t get feedback, it’s because people are nice and they don’t want to disappoint me or it’s a waste of their breath just to tell me I suck, so. I think maybe I did something wrong.”  
  
“You don’t very often,” says Daiki. “And it’s not like any of the Senpais are that nice. If you do something wrong Imayoshi’s going to be all sarcastic and Susa’s going to sigh and roll his eyes and Wakamatsu’s just going to yell.”  
  
“I think that’s just with you,” says Ryou. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to imply—”  
  
“It’s kinda true,” says Daiki, shrugging. “Hey, maybe they don’t, since you’re a good kid. But if you make a mistake and don’t apologize, as long as you know what you did, whether it’s because you correct it on your own or they tell you, it’ll be fine.”  
  
“But,” says Ryou, and then bites his lip. “The bench—”  
  
“Is full of guards who are nothing compared to you, okay?”  
  
Ryou nods. “I know I’m better. But I don’t know if—”  
  
“Satsuki knows; Satsuki’s smart. Don’t worry about it; she’ll make the right moves even if Coach doesn’t, okay?”  
  
And that Ryou believes. He hooks his pinky in Daiki’s, and Daiki can’t help but smile.


	76. momoriko, tactician

She is a tactician, and her heart is dark. Her gaze is as wide as it is narrow, concerned with everything but only with the bottom line, only with how everything relates to that. She whittles the rest away, tosses it aside, lets it fall off like fat into a spitfire under the roasting fowl. She shows no mercy, even to the ones she loves; at the end of the day it’s all the same. Or she’d prefer to have them on the opposite side, where she can take their carefully-studied weak points and fold them up neat like laundry and toss them in a drawer.   
  
Riko is just an amateur, after all. This is something she’d sort of ended up in, not a path she’s been deliberately walking since day one, the way Satsuki seems to have left a trail until she could barely talk, when basketball strategy had been the only thing she’d known how to speak. Riko’s always had basketball in the background, her father shooting at the gym, his clients training with him, pro players giving them free and discount tickets, seats close to the court. Basketball was fun; basketball was good; it was never her top priority. There was school and there were video games; there were books and handcrafts; sure, she could have the game on the radio while doing something else but chances were she wouldn’t be paying too much attention.  
  
Perhaps it’s all just an excuse to put herself above Satsuki, to put her own heart, devious as it can be, above Satsuki’s. Riko’s not above ruthlessness. What’s there to be above, anyway? Why hold back when you know you could have done more? Perhaps it’s easier that they’re all distant figures, people she can villainize to make her job easier; if she thinks of them as less than her, less than human, she can push her team harder without remorse, without a guilty bite of herself.   
  
Satsuki’s heart is dark and charred, in many ways unfamiliar to Riko; she deals with hearts that beat wildly with spirit for Seirin, for basketball, for something. This is not something she wants for herself, but it’s not contagious. And, as she kisses Satsuki, she thinks she might be strong enough to resist, if she gets her way.  
  
“I have my own priorities, Riko-chan,” Satsuki says, face soft in the crook of Riko’s neck.  
  
“We’ll see,” says Riko, the murmur of her throat touching Satsuki’s skin.


	77. akashi & rakuzan, never boring

Akashi has no use for anyone who doesn’t respect him, who doesn’t respect how absolutely absolute he is. It’s a matter of dismissing anyone else, or letting them think they’d chosen to go. It doesn’t matter with people like them; once they’re gone they cease to matter. Look at Haizaki, from so-called miracle to wherever he is now (Fukuda Sogo, a mediocre school for mediocre boys like him; Akashi knows, not that it matters). The only thing of any importance is results, statements; Akashi is absolute and Rakuzan wins, no matter who’s out there.  
  
Of course, that much matters; he hadn’t chosen Rakuzan simply for its quality academic reputation, its lack of proximity to his father, or the years of glory that have already faded. It’s already a team that’s built to win, right now; that’s the only kind of team Akashi’s interested in, after all, a team where his job is not easy but easier, a team where everyone has the same goal, victory, and everyone knows how to achieve it, from the lowliest manager to the captain. Who is, of course, him.  
  
There had been another vice-captain before Reo, but he was unimportant; he had left along with the mold on the outside of the re-grouted floor. Now there is only Reo, the ball singing off his fingers, long shots.  
  
“Ice your knee,” Akashi says, flipping through the playbook; it’s less than adequate.  
  
“Of course, Sei-chan.”  
  
And that’s how it should be, orders disguised as requests, obeyed absolutely. But Akashi’s not one for words like should; that’s how things must be, how they have to be. There is no wishing, no possibility, only what is and isn’t. There is only Rakuzan’s victory, the sunset happening sooner and sooner afterward. All Akashi wants is everything; all Akashi gets is everything, eventually, absolutely. And right now he wants the Winter Cup; they will have the Winter Cup (never mind the parts of that future he cannot quite see clearly, fingers almost like Shintarou’s and a jump so high it shouldn’t be possible). They cannot expect it to fall into their laps just because that is how things have to be; there is work to be done. There are teams to be defeated; there are victories to notch along the way, to add up to a larger victory at the end.  
  
Akashi needs everything, but everything will never be boring.


	78. hyuuhana, lucky

Hanamiya likes to remind Hyuuga he’s lucky sometimes. Hyuuga had said, once, that wasn’t Hanamiya mixing him up with some other glasses shooting guard guy? Like they were all the same? As if Hanamiya’s ever given a damn about that one (and it's not like he cares about Hyuuga all that much, either, okay, he’s just fun to mess with and okay in the sack when he stops yapping, which is almost fucking never, it’s like he’s afraid the world’s going to run out of words to say and volume to say it at and Hanamiya’s going to fucking go deaf or something if he doesn’t stop this).   
  
But Hyuuga is pretty lucky, all things considered. Like, first of all he’s just a history nerd obsessed with his little dolls (collector’s items, Hanamiya’s ass; come on) who reads haircutting magazines and wears the geekiest glasses Hanamiya’s ever seen (the more Hanamiya calls him four eyes the lest he seems to be inclined to wear contacts, as if he thinks it’s some sort of affectionate nickname—like hell it is, but Hanamiya would probably miss calling him that and maybe still use it anyway even if Hyuuga stopped wearing his glasses all the time). And Hanamiya still lets Hyuuga hang out with him, still kisses him and doesn’t kick him out of bed first thing in the morning, and doesn’t make fun of his shitty grades—not all the time, anyway, but kicking someone who’s already kind of stupid in a certain regard is a little bit less fun than annoying someone who’s a little bit more competitive in that regard. Although, it’s still pretty fun to see Hyuuga color with rage and declare that he’s not a nerd like Hanamiya (as if; Hanamiya doesn’t need to study all that much) and at those times he’s lucky Hanamiya doesn’t kick him out for being too loud (and that the neighbors don’t complain, but Hanamiya pays them all off anyway).  
  
Rather, Hyuuga should feel lucky that Hanamiya hadn’t kicked his knee in all those years ago just to shut him up or give him something to really yap about. He’d been too focused on Kiyoshi, even though it turned out Hyuuga was the more interesting one, the one who Hanamiya would maybe let keep up. But only a little bit—he’ll leave Hyuuga behind in the dust when that option becomes the more convenient one.


	79. imaao, did you mean it

  
“You called me horrible the other day. Did you mean it?”  
  
Aomine looks down over the cover of the latest Mai-chan photo book. She looks especially good this issue, so he’d really rather not his suddenly-insecure ex-captain bother him. Though maybe it’s not about insecurity at all; he just wants to be a killjoy or get Aomine to do something for him.  
  
“Well, you could buy me the right gravure magazines. That would be better.”  
  
“It’s not my job to entertain you,” says Imayoshi. “All that stuff’s alike.”  
  
“Mai-chan has bigger boobs,” says Aomine. “Look.”  
  
Imayoshi does look, almost as if he’s being polite. “She’s very lovely.”  
  
“Anyway,” says Aomine. “You are kind of horrible, the way you act and stuff. Don’t tell me that’s not what you’re going for, striking fear into innocent hearts or whatever.”  
  
“That’s not my intention at all, Aomine-kun.”  
  
It’s hard to tell if Imayoshi’s serious or not. There’s the way he looks, bangs too long and eyes too closed, like some kind of fox, glasses crooked on his nose until he pushes them up, that sinister smile stretching across his face. So he can’t help what genetics had given him, but he could practice a better smile, buy a set of contact lenses, something like that. On the other hand, if he wasn’t so damn creepy Aomine would have to try a lot harder to win basketball games, so. That’s a tradeoff, or maybe it’s not. It’s harder to say now than it was a few days ago, before they’d lost.   
  
“Does it really bug you?”  
  
“No,” says Imayoshi, smiling that sinister spread. “I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”  
  
“Why?” says Aomine. “You could have talked about this.”  
  
He waves the photo book.  
  
“I’m not interested in gravure idols or their photos,” says Imayoshi. “I’m interested in you.”  
  
“Me.” Erstwhile ace, formerly Imayoshi’s, now no longer.  
  
“You,” says Imayoshi as he leans forward.  
  
His mouth is close, Aomine thinks. It’s close enough to kiss, if Aomine were to lean in just a little bit, taste those lips. If he leans any closer his chest will press the pages of the photo book closer to Aomine’s chest, and Aomine will put it down. Let nothing be between them. And his imagination merges with reality when Imayoshi does all of that, when the photo book is placed beside Aomine, when Imayoshi tastes like cinnamon and spice.


	80. akakise, hazing

  
“I don’t want to haze the first-years,” says Kise, pouting.  
  
Akashi looks at him. Kise complains a lot, about everything, about work and school and basketball and the fact that people expect him to do things, things that Akashi’s long since accepted as facts of life (and if he doesn't like them he finds a way around them or gets them over with, no need to dwell and talk about it).  
  
“Weren’t you hazed?” says Akashi (a barbaric practice, as he sees it; he, of course, never has been, as if anyone would try—but that’s not how they do things at Teikou or at Rakuzan regardless). “Isn’t the whole meaning that you get to do it to the next ones?”  
  
“Well, yeah,” says Kise. “But everyone was mean to me anyway.”  
  
(He makes it easy, turns himself into a ripe and low-hanging fruit, not that Akashi has taken a particular advantage of it, more than once in a blue moon.)  
  
“I don’t know; it’s just dumb. Doing extra chores or whatever—not that we haven’t paid our dues, but it goes quicker when everyone does it, and then some of the first-years get angry and resentful, and it seems like more trouble than it’s worth.”  
  
Of course, Kise’s nature isn’t particularly altruistic—he’s not needlessly cruel past a certain point, but he can be more practical than he seems, although the illusion on top of that is his showmanship, his makeup and fancy dribbles and other things that serve their own purpose.   
  
“You were never that mean to me, Akashichii.”  
  
“We don’t haze at Teikou. I happen to agree that it’s not worthwhile.”  
  
“Still, though,” says Kise. “You’re nice.”  
  
It comes off as a little bit mocking, although Akashi supposes it’s not as if he doesn’t deserve it. “Am I? What a compliment, Kise.”  
  
Kise kisses him, a smack on the cheek that smells like chapstick, feels like wax. Akashi waits a few seconds to wipe it off.   
  
“Next time, do this,” Akashi says, and he waits for Kise to turn.  
  
Kise’s not going to ask what this is; he knows already, but Akashi doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have someone who can keep up with him, after all, and he rewards that with a longer kiss, the sweet spot on Kise’s mouth, tongue on teeth on tongue, perhaps a bit closer to breathless than he’d intended. But not unenjoyable in the slightest.


	81. imahana, lonely at the top

Perhaps it’s the realization of a man older than his years (some say wiser; there’s a whole crack Susa has bout what an old man Imayoshi is, as if he acts his age himself, too concerned with organization, sleeping early, and eating his old man food—in this case, whether normally or not, Imayoshi has most definitely not been wiser). Hindsight that’s better than foresight, insight. This is far enough behind him for his farsighted eyes to see the bigger picture, the thing he’d been inside before. He’d thought, errantly, foolishly, that all of this had been in some way about him, but it was just about Hanamiya, start to finish.   
  
So Hanamiya’s a bit of a self-centered narcissist; he’s an only child, a genius, a basketball prodigy. Imayoshi would be a little alarmed if he weren’t, regardless of the outward appearance Hanamiya tries to project (and for a boy his age, he’s good at it). Imayoshi’s always known this, but having this as a baseline had perhaps taught him to disregard it, had discouraged him, maybe, from looking into it further. That Hanamiya’s actions were all about him, none of them even partially about others.  
  
Others are side effects, Hanamiya says, more like spits. He means the people he fools so easily, the people he crushes like cockroaches under the heel of an expensive school loafer. Even if he makes a point of destroying them, hopes and dreams and ligaments alike, in the end they don’t quite matter. He doesn’t think of them completely.  
  
Imayoshi’s arrogant enough to think he’s different, that these rules don’t apply to him. That because Hanamiya kisses him, sweet venom numbing his tongue, that he matters. That his happiness and pleasure is of concern to Hanamiya except on how he gets off on the power, except as a means, a stop on the road that leads back to its beginning, him, him, him, always him. Never room for anyone else to share the crownless throne.  
  
Imayoshi’s heard it’s lonely at the top, and he can only suppose that it’s true, most of the time, even some of the time. Or maybe not all that often for Hanamiya. He’s got himself for company, himself to please himself, and that seems like it’s enough for him—not that Imayoshi’s bitter or anything, or mad at anyone other than himself for being a little foolish. But it’s only fools who fall in love, isn’t it?


	82. aokuro, ordinary teammates

Ordinary teammates, huh? That’s how they’re described, for lack of a better description, as if everything else had never happened. It’s not a simplification; it doesn’t look that way even if you zoom it out. It doesn’t look that way if you were there, even for half a second, on the second string, even if you didn’t know all that was going on. Satsuki does, but even if she didn’t (though that’s too hard of a concept for Daiki to wrap his head around, Satsuki not being wise to something happening right under her nose, Daiki not talking about it, however obliquely, with her) she still wouldn’t say they’d been ordinary teammates, out of loyalty to either of them or both, or to the truth.  
  
Maybe it makes it easier to pretend that that’s something they ever were, that there wasn’t something about Tetsu that had caught Daiki’s eye from the start, that he hadn’t leaned closer to the shadows just to watch him play, that that pure love and determination hadn’t captivated him. Like something, some way he’d known how to play (once, not now), something he’d been looking for the whole time but hadn’t known it. In that respect, they’d been an even match, regardless of complementary skill sets. That much had been an accident, a turn of luck that had let them have everything, until it had become next to nothing.   
  
Without that, Daiki likes to think they still would have gotten together. That maybe it would have been better, that he wouldn’t have to worry about receiving Tetsu’s passes, that Tetsu wouldn’t have gotten all caught up in the tournament. But even he’s not quite naive enough to think that it could have happened, just like that, simple and easy. They wouldn’t have been on even footing; they wouldn't have hung out as much; they wouldn’t have gotten close enough for Daiki to try in the first place. It would have been too awkward, no matter how much Daiki had wanted to.  
  
They hadn’t been ordinary teammates; they’d been together, on the court and off of it. They'd been like magnets, north and south pole attracting, smacking together. They’d been sender and receiver, the ends of a telephone line, connected by invisible wires, the kind that never tripped anyone up except the two of them, in the end. Or maybe that hadn’t been a connection, just the two of them, severed, on opposite sides of the court.


	83. midokuro, mutual dislike

There is safety in mutual dislike, Kuroko thinks. He dislikes Midorima; Midorima dislikes him; now that they no longer have to play for the same team, take the same court, they don’t have to talk to each other or see each other very often. They have some of the same mutual acquaintances (it’s a stretch to call Midorima a friend of Momoi’s, even if there’s no animosity on either end) and they’re bound to run into each other during basketball, face each other on the court.  
  
There’s never been any respect lost, though, when everyone else had stopped trying and they’d both forged ahead alone, afternoons in the gym, one of them and the other, ignoring. The steady rhythm like rain of Midorima’s shots swishing through the net, bouncing on the floor. If Midorima had been interested then, in anything but basketball, but keeping up his end of a bargain he’d thought they’d all signed, in being angry with Akashi and Murasakibara and himself, he’d had ample time to say something about it. And Kuroko’s got no reason to trust Takao when he says Midorima’s interested; he barely knows Takao and what he does know is trouble.   
  
But despite their annoyance with each other, Takao and Midorima do seem to be inching towards something like friendship. Kuroko doubts Takao would say that to hurt Midorima, especially if he’s depending on Midorima as his ace. He might—no, he might not try to sabotage Seirin by playing with Kuroko’s feelings, getting Kuroko on a trail that’s not there, getting him to say or do something. But. If there is interest—the flash of Midorima’s glasses catches Kuroko’s eye; he’s looking away, turning too fast, as if afraid to catch Kuroko looking back. It’s Midorima; that could mean anything but he’s so transparent. His cheeks are colored slightly, not from weather or sickness.   
  
Kuroko’s always tried not to think about it before, the softness of Midorima’s gaze, how soft his hands are, no doubt, his hair. The length of his brilliant green eyelashes, the wrinkle of his nose when he dislikes something. He’s undeniably attractive, and he’s interested. Maybe, probably. (Maybe it’s easier for him to show it, recognize it for what it is, when they’re not bothering each other every day—maybe Kuroko’s own interest is magnified by the lack of proximity, blurred memories of how annoying Midorima can be. But maybe not.)


	84. momoriko, take down the evidence

She carries a pen so she can take down the evidence, like an investigator at a crime scene; Riko can just see her now, Satsuki as a private investigator pretending to listen sympathetically to the police officer droning on and on and embellishing, looking at the bloodstains on the cement, stepping gingerly in flats, leaving no trace of herself but seeing the one that leads to the door or the window or the alley. She sees; she notes; she remembers; she puts it all together later.  
  
She is far less analytical when it comes to Riko, something a little surprising and a little nice.  
  
“Sometimes I’m so busy taking notes, I don’t notice things,” Satsuki says. “If I’m there, if I’m focusing on basketball—I’ll get everything. I’ll see it, but anything off the court, possibly important, I don’t. And if I’m too busy with this, I get out of the moment. It doesn’t matter so much when I’m doing that, but here. I don’t want to miss time with you.”  
  
The way she says it, sincere, careful, but not calculated, forethought but not planned to the letter, feels some kind of way that Riko can’t quite name or describe. Her insides are constricting, reminding her of how many organs she’s got there (a lot); she turns over to kiss Satsuki. It’s what she wants to do and it’s the only way to respond to something like that. Satsuki’s hands settle on her ass, squeezing (Riko hadn’t known she’d had this much ass to squeeze in the first place, but, well, Satsuki continues to surprise).   
  
It’s a little hard for Riko to get; she’s more about the big picture, the measurements interlocking—that’s analytical, too, but in a different way, a way she can push aside when she wants to (but sometimes she doesn’t; sometimes she’ll scan Satsuki’s body just because she can and Satsuki will swat at her and they’ll both feel a little bit ridiculous, but Riko finds she almost doesn’t mind).   
  
But she does get it, in a way; the world’s too fast sometimes. Not for her to keep up with, but for her to take the moments as they come, to steal some alone time with Satsuki like this (and it always feels stolen from the world, its rightful owner someone else rather than the two of them, their mutual time account run too dry). So she kisses Satsuki again, because they can, and because she wants to and because Satsuki wants her to, and this moment may be forgotten among the reams in their heads, not carefully noted in Satsuki’s hand, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.


	85. imahana, hockey au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> violence

Imayoshi blocks the shot with his shoulder, and a second later he realizes, the pain ringing in his ears, that yeah, he probably shouldn’t have done that. It probably would have gone wide regardless; it was Hanamiya aiming directly for him yet again, but Imayoshi can never not take the bait. He’s lying on the ice; he can feel his shoulder pulsing and moving and he tries to struggle up. It hurts, but other players have been hurt worse and kept playing. Imayoshi’s no noble fool, determined to play forever because the puck is his life, the stick his blood (or maybe that’s the ice, his veins the circles and blue lines, and that’s a little bit cheesy even when his tongue is firmly in his cheek, feeling the gaps in his teeth).   
  
Play’s been stopped; he assures the refs he’s fine; Harasawa calls a time out and Imayoshi takes his time skating over, bumping his stick into Hanamiya the way he knows Hanamiya hates.   
  
“That wasn’t very nice.”  
  
“I was aiming for your face,” says Hanamiya.  
  
Quick and to the point, and if Imayoshi’s shoulder didn’t hurt so fucking much he’d clutch his chest and embarrass Hanamiya with his melodrama. But there’s a game to be won, faceoffs to be had, plans to be distributed, and Kirisaki Daiichi might be wanting its coach for that (and Harasawa and Momoi will no doubt want Imayoshi to come over and, you know, do his job, too).  
  
Hanamiya kisses Imayoshi’s neck first after the game, bites and holds on but not before Imayoshi can ask if he’d been aiming for Imayoshi’s face that time, too. Hanamiya chomps pretty hard, as if to emphasize that no, he wasn’t, which is good, because Imayoshi doesn’t really want to have to deal with explaining a hickey on his face in addition to the one that’s probably going to be above his collar and the swollen shoulder. It’s all the price of Touou’s victory, Imayoshi supposes, but he’s more than willing to pay it. And he’s not quite ready to give Hanamiya the satisfaction of being told as much, but he enjoys it when Hanamiya marks him up like this, as if he’s willing to lay claim, like Imayoshi’s is his to bruise and bite. Maybe that’s a little sick, but it’s hockey. There are no saints here, no angels, only the hell of blades cutting across ice and skin.


	86. imaao, remember me

So Aomine hadn’t really remembered the guys from that one time before. There are a lot of things that fell through the cracks what with the last year or so being what it had been. He remembers they were Touou guys, a couple of forwards and a couple of guards, and one of them had been kind of like a fox. Maybe it’s the short guy with the bangs and closed eyes, talking to Satsuki (better not be hitting on her; Aomine’s in no mood to watch that even if Satsuki will show him the way to the door with more grace and finesse than Aomine ever could, even if all the guy deserves is a punch in the dick). But that’s not quite right; that guy’s got to be in Aomine’s year.  
  
The sounds of dribbling fade back into Aomine’s ears; even if it’s the first day he shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t need to make an impression; they saw him play. They know who he is, Aomine Daiki, so-called ace of the so-called generation of miracles. The less Aomine thinks about that, then, them, the better. He shouldn’t be at practice; he’ll show up for games, maybe. He doesn’t need basketball; he doesn’t need pointlessly showing up and making the rest of the team give up because they’re so far behind.   
  
Glasses had been kind of cute, though. He looks too young to have been the fox at the gym, though it would be nice to show off for him.  
  
“Aren’t you going to play?”   
  
“Jeez, where’d you come from?” Glasses, as if to speak of the devil.  
  
“You ought to pay a little more attention, Aomine-kun.”  
  
So Glasses knows who he is. “And you are…?”  
  
“You don’t remember? I’m wounded. I’m your new captain.”  
  
Oh, shit, he’s got to be joking. But come to think of it, hadn’t the coach said that the fox guy that day was the new captain? Aomine had only been half-listening, his mind made up already. It had been him, but for some reason, Aomine only wants to show off now, and it’s hard to outdo that, especially when he really hasn’t been practicing.  
  
But that’s okay, the only one who can beat him is him, after all, and he’ll raise that bar a little higher, impress Imayoshi all over again, make it so Imayoshi won’t be able to tear his eyes away from Aomine, so that Aomine’s the only thing he sees. Aomine’s up for the challenge.


	87. akahana, kiridai!akashi

“I can give you what you need,” says Akashi. “What you want.”  
  
Hanamiya’s used to false promises, the ones people make his mother, oily smiles and grease dripping from their teeth like their mouths are exhaust pipes of old cars, before fuel efficiency was in anyone’s vocabulary. She never takes them, weaving her way through them, water under oil. Why should this be any different, when Akashi’s the son of the same kind of rich person who think his mother’s an easy target? Why should he let Akashi be the predator when he’s waiting here in the wings?   
  
Hanamiya can believe that Akashi knows what he wants, but. Still.  
  
“I’ll sharpen your fangs. Hone them. If you give me the four.”  
  
If. It’s not as if Hanamiya had worked so hard and ascended to the captaincy like a glowing saint; it’s not as if he’d asked for it. He’d simply taken it, the way he knows Akashi thinks he can do, but he knows better. Keep your enemies close; act like you respect them. And that is something that Hanamiya can truly respect. And if he gives Akashi the four, it’s not giving in. He’s seen the dysfunction of the Teikou team, ripped at the seams, spreading despair like a flat knife spreading a condiment. Akashi can help; Hanamiya knows that much already. And if their goals are the same, then perhaps it’s better to give Akashi what he wants, keep him as the figurehead. This isn’t Hanamiya’s team, they’ll say. They’ll see something purer from Akashi, golden boy with a golden eye. What they want to see, since his talent is at the top, then he must be a good guy. Simple shit like that makes Hanamiya sick.  
  
“I think there is a place for you at Kirisaki Daiichi,” Hanamiya says. “As captain, of course. I’d be honored to coach a talent like you.”  
  
Akashi looks at him; he knows already.  
  
“Kidding. Come or don’t; don’t leave me hanging,” says Hanamiya, standing up. “But I’m sure you’ll find my offer’s better than anyone else’s.”  
  
“Yes,” says Akashi, eyes gleaming, face trained on Hanamiya’s lips (and oh, that’s something worth exploiting if it’s still there come April). “I believe this could be to our mutual benefit.”  
  
“Don’t disappoint me,” says Hanamiya, turning to go, hands stuck deep in his pockets.   
  
(Or else Hanamiya will look like a fool, trusting a kid like that who can’t win without miracles around him, but sometimes you have to take a gamble, oilslick rich kids or no.)


	88. imahana + susa, what's the deal

  
“What’s the deal with you and Hanamiya, anyway?” says Susa, mouth full of sandwich.  
  
“Why do you always ask questions like that at lunch?”  
  
“Where else am I going to ask them? Basketball practice?”  
  
“You could be a good neighbor, come over and socialize,” says Imayoshi. “No one cares about your grades.”  
  
“I do,” says Susa. “Besides, you’re ducking the question. Are you two, like, dating?”  
  
“I reckon you could say that,” says Imayoshi. “Sort of.”  
  
Susa raises his eyebrows. “So it’s like you fuck him but you don’t buy him flowers?”  
  
“That’s so crude, Susa.”  
  
“Well?”  
  
“A little bit. We’re friends, though,” says Imayoshi.   
  
“Some friends.”  
  
“It’s an ethical responsibility,” says Imayoshi. “I keep him out of trouble because I care.”  
  
“That’s working really well. You two have a screwed up sense of ethics.”  
  
“And you don’t?”  
  
Susa shrugs. “I’m just saying.”  
  
(Saying that playing for Touou or Kirisaki Daiichi, being blatantly cruel in a twisting sort of way like Hanamiya, that any of it’s worse than anything else, it’s all pretty funny. Well, maybe not funny, but Imayoshi likes to lie and demur behind the laughing mask he wears, and it’s very few people who realize it’s there or try to peel it off. Maybe it’s becoming him, or he’s becoming it, too much time with it and not enough without, like maybe he wears it to sleep.)  
  
“Do you think I’m bad, Susa?”  
  
“Are you hitting on me? I’ll tell Hanamiya.”  
  
“Mean.”  
  
“Not really,” says Susa. “You’re kind of a dick sometimes."  
  
“Just like Hanamiya, huh?”  
  
Susa snorts. “Love really is blind, then, if you can’t see his faults.”  
  
“I like his faults,” says Imayoshi. “Like I said, I’m the one who keeps him out of too much trouble; I don’t want his faults to end up with him doing something really stupid.”  
  
(As if he’s the arbiter of what is and isn’t, but Hanamiya’s not the greatest liar and there are some things, a not entirely joking thought about hiding bodies, hiding evidence, hiding real crimes, because the white-collar money laundering and embezzlement kind of thing would bore Hanamiya to tears; it’s only the real and physical that people remember long after they’re gone, the marks they’ve left, scars and holes and wounds and rips. But Hanamiya could probably take care of it, though there’s no way Imayoshi wouldn’t find out—and if he’s going to hell, as Hanamiya’s accomplice isn’t a bad way to get there.)


	89. akamido, would you like

It’s the black cat, Midorima thinks. That’s why he can’t ask Akashi out today, why he’s late to the coffee shop and why Akashi’s father calls and his face does something unreadable, subtle, tense; he’s distracted and apologetic and leaves early, but there will be other chances, other days he does not pass a black cat or walk under a ladder or step on a crack in the sidewalk.   
  
Except the next time, Cancer is ranked twelfth. Perhaps it’s a jinx on the days he plans to get coffee with Akashi, the days Akashi plans to come in to Tokyo; perhaps it’s Oha-Asa taking away just as she gives (first on the day of the game against Yosen, third on his birthday) and at least he’s able to secure a lucky item. Not as large as he needs, as large as it would be to make him feel a bit better, but his metal water bottle is tucked under his arm as he goes to the shop. But this time Akashi’s brought two of his teammates, Mibuchi and Hayama; they talk enough for the four of them all together, asking Midorima questions about his relationship with Akashi (he tries not to stutter, color, twitch) and about the shogi they play, the basketball they play. Midorima wants to ask; they leave early, but his tongue is tied up and he just wants to enjoy these precious few moments with Akashi alone.  
  
Coward, he thinks. Maybe it isn’t a jinx on his luck; maybe it isn’t all the luck he has utilized for other purposes, his piano teacher canceling the day after he’s skipped out a little on practice, everything for basketball. Maybe it’s a jinx on him, self-inflicted, the way he builds this up in his mind. It’s Akashi; how can he not? Everything needs to be perfect, but he has no plan, not enough of one to steer the conversation toward it anyway.   
  
Midorima’s ranked tenth next time, hardly better. His lucky item is larger, a Rilakkuma plushie; he sits it next to him on the booth seat. Akashi smiles at it, and then at Midorima.  
  
“Akashi,” says Midorima. “Would you like this to be a date?”  
  
“Yes,” says Akashi. “I’d be delighted.”  
  
Not much changes except the pounding of Midorima’s heart against his ribcage, the way he lets himself watch more and more of Akashi, and the bill he foots himself at the end. But his chest feels lighter, even before Akashi pulls him into the back of the car, tells his driver to just drive for a while, and kisses him behind the tinted windows.


	90. aokise, time travel au

It’s hard not to like Aomine. Kise kind of had ever since he’d known of him, that easy smile, clear and real, the way he’d play basketball in a way Kise had instinctively known he could and couldn’t imitate, though the thought hadn’t presented itself fully until he’d tried. He’s easy on the eyes, too; that doesn’t hurt any of it, and it’s kind of a harmless little crush. So Kise looks up to him, respects him, thinks he’s good-looking; so nothing will probably come of it. They’ll graduate and move on, and Kise will continue reaching for those great heights, until he gets there. (Then, maybe? It’s hard to let himself get too caught up in the fantasy.)  
  
“Hey.”  
  
A toe of a sneaker, kicking up dust, Aomine. Not Aomine, a little taller, leaner, older, the last traces of baby fat gone from his cheeks, holding himself like he has to work to hold himself together, as if the world has dropped a great burden on him, something he cannot carry (Aomine, Kise thinks, could carry anything, couldn’t he).  
  
“Aominecchi?”  
  
Kise’s heard of time travelers before; he’s never met one. He glances across the yard; Aomine (his Aomine, he thinks, even though Aomine belongs to the world, Kuroko and Momoi and Akashi and everything else, as much as him—but he won’t let go) is looking at some kind of book with Murasakibara, their heads bowed. Sad Aomine follows Kise’s gaze.  
  
“You look up to me.”  
  
“Yes,” says Kise (that much is obvious now, to the Aomine that’s here).  
  
“If your goal is to be like me, you won’t have much of a future.”  
  
What does he mean by that? That he’ll be crushed under the same weight? That—maybe, Kise thinks a strange thought. Maybe he dies, trying to get to some tournament where Aomien’s playing; maybe that’s why Aomine looks so goddamn awful. (This isn’t some light novel, though, come on.)  
  
“You’re wrong,” says Kise, daring this Aomine to tell him.   
  
“Give it up,” says Aomine.  
  
When Kise looks back, Sad Aomine’s gone.  
  
*  
  
“You were right,” says Aomine. “I was wrong.”  
  
His body’s slumped over Kise’s, joined as they are now, skin to skin, almost always, voice right in Kise’s ear, breath between the skin and Kise’s earring.  
  
“I know,” says Kise. “But about what in particular?”  
  
“Remember when I visited you. Time and shit.”  
  
That, a realization afterwards about what Aomine had meant—and time, time Kise had taken, fists against the wall, to prove him wrong. He’s known Aomine’s known for a while now, because they’re fixed, rebuilt, stronger now.   
  
“Can’t say I didn’t tell you so.”  
  
Kise tilts his head to kiss Aomine full-on, to taste the traces of bitterness on his mouth.


	91. kiyohana, honesty is overrated

Teppei’s got feelings. He’s human, heart of iron or not; of course he does. The feelings people tend to slap on him, labels that they think they see, caring and responsible and what a dutiful grandson and a leader, aren’t totally untrue, but they flatten him to a surface level. Those are the only things he lets escape, evaporate into the air. The larger feelings lurk beneath, like the way he feels about Makoto, dark and shapeless, spreading like a volume of ink in his blood, turning it black. Makoto, always, the reason they couldn’t go to the same school (not enough room), couldn’t team up with the other uncrowned (different but the same sort of reason), the thing that had made Makoto look at him from across the court and decide, as if it was ever up for decision, that he was going to break Seirin by breaking Teppei.  
  
The thing is, Teppei’s not broken, not much more than he had been before. He feels badly about Riko and Junpei and especially Shun, but Shun’s all right anyway. He can deal with this shit better than the rest of them (or maybe that’s just Teppei weaseling out of the blame again). He feels the same about Makoto, Makoto’s face close to his, lying on the hardwood looking straight up into the millions or billions of watts of halogen. Thinking about how cute Makoto looks with a sneer, how much Teppei wants to break his face right back, twist his arm, how that strength is in his hands. How Makoto’s practically daring him to, but Teppei’s got an image to uphold, a hopeless love to nurture because he’s got nothing else better to do.  
  
He couldn’t walk it off then; he can't walk it off now, the permanence of all of it. The surgery’s only a stopgap until everything breaks all over again, until he has another shot, him and Makoto (and everyone else, too). He doesn't want to walk it off; he wants to keep this with him, a reminder all the time. “I’ll carry you with me in my knee” isn't all that romantic to try and say out loud, but it’s how it is, and Makoto’s etched on him, a permanent stain he couldn’t scrub away. Or maybe he’s just not trying that hard, if he’s being honest with himself. But honesty’s a little overrated, so who gives a damn?


	92. akahana, pillow talk

What passes for pillow talk with Akashi is a variety of things, dry remarks on the stock market or a solution to one of Hanamiya’s many annoying work problems (that Hanamiya hadn’t asked him to solve, thank you very much). Sometimes there’s very little, both of them quiet and absorbed in their separate sets of thoughts, relating to themselves and to each other or nothing like that at all.  
  
“I do wonder sometimes,” Akashi says softly, a mock courtesy to Hanamiya being asleep or suddenly pretending when his breathing hasn’t deepened and his eyes are still only half-closed. “Why you didn’t join Rakuzan, with the other Uncrowned.”  
  
“It’s not like they asked me,” says Hanamiya, rolling over, turning away. “It’s not like I would have given them what they wanted out of some sort of loyalty to some shitty press nickname.”  
  
“As I recall, they were quite obvious about their plans.”  
  
“Do I look like a fucking team player to you?” says Hanamiya. “I’m not going to follow them and form something like that."  
  
(It would have been more about them, the group, than Hanamiya; maybe he’s self-centered but the team won’t look out for him. He’s going to look out for him, and if that means being a leader, standing out in the crowd rather than blending in with annoying idiots like the ones who’d played with Akashi, then Hanamiya’s fine with that; the rest of them don’t care about breaking things, don’t see the world in similar enough terms as Hanamiya’s. They live among the trash like fucking raccoons.)  
  
“You are a team player,” says Akashi. “You were with Kirisaki Daiichi, were you not?”  
  
“I was a coach,” says Hanamiya. “Not some fucking zombie follower sucking the dick of teamwork and friendship.”  
  
“They are your friends.”  
  
Friends, huh? That still has nothing to do with anything. “Don’t tell me what I am like you’ve got it all figured out,” says Hanamiya.  
  
“All right," says Akashi in that voice he uses when he thinks he’s won or something.   
  
Hanamiya huffs and rolls back over, grabbing at the colors (not that he’s cold, but he just wants them; he’s the one who bought them, after all). Akashi’s grip is firm, and Hanamiya’s not going to turn this into something like a childish game. He tugs again; the fabric doesn’t give. Fine, let Akashi think he has what he wants; Hanamiya’s too tired to deal with this shit right now.


	93. ao&waka, mistake

Aomine’s fond of pushing at the lines, kicking down the doors, as soon as someone pushes him one way he’ll push back or pull at his own end because he wants to. Even if it’s a fight he hadn’t meant to enter, if he's going to fall in he might as well do a goddamn thing about it and win. Besides, it’s fun to poke on his own, prod at people like Wakamatsu who go ballistic at the slightest touch, bruise wide and deep even if they heal up quick.   
  
Sometimes, though, he might be pushing over the line a little bit too far. Call it his conscience acting up, newfound after all that’s happened, something like a disease he’d picked up from practicing too much, maybe from Ryou or Satsuki (more likely Ryou, but whatever, it doesn’t matter where it had come from now that it’s here). Like maybe this is the opposite of constructive; it might be better if he’d stayed out of it, and Wakamatsu’s giving him the stink eye like if this was a military he’d be taken outside and shot for being disobedient—but Wakamatsu doesn't have a killer’s bone in his body, soft all the way through (nobody would believe it with how harsh he can be, but you don’t need to see that much of him for it to be obvious). Ryou, on the other hand? That thought’s a little too real, RYou with a shaking hand, now steady, no. Fucking intrusive thoughts; there are better things in life. Ryou’s comic, Mai-chan, what’s for dinner tonight, stopping by the convenience store on the way home. And there’s Ryou and Wakamatsu in real life, Ryou in the corner apologizing for something again and Wakamatsu catching up to him on the track. What now? Aomine slows.  
  
“Aomine! It was you, wasn’t it?”  
  
“What was me?”  
  
“Don’t what; someone’s been in my store of protein shakes.”  
  
“I don’t drink protein shakes; they’re gross,” says Aomine. “It was someone else.”  
  
“You ate all that food Sakurai made for us! Why are you—”  
  
“Sorry, Captain. I thought they were communal,” says some guy in Wakamtsu’s year (Mita, maybe). “Like the ones Imayoshi used to keep—”  
  
“In the other fridge. Shit,” says Wakamatsu. “Don’t drink them.”  
  
The anger’s melted off his face; Aomine stops, his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
“And,” says Wakamatsu, exhaling. “Aomine. Sorry. I jumped to a conclusion.”  
  
Aomine’s kind of mad, but it’s not like Wakamatsu wouldn’t have yelled at him for something or other today, and it’s not like there isn’t precedent (and if he’d liked protein shakes, he might have done it, so).   
  
“I might forgive you. If you let me off practice for the next week.”  
  
Wakamatsu rolls his eyes, but slaps Aomine on the back. “Get back to running.”


	94. aoima, small time addict

Aomine’s like a small-time addict, started slow and small, gone at a pace with barely-noticeable increases, so that even as he’s getting further and further in he claims it doesn’t have him; he’s not addicted. He doesn’t do it that much; he can quit whenever the hell he wants to. At least, that’s what he maintains, and it’s not worth it to push him to the place where he breaks, where he admits it or he’s too far in to ever be out except at the wrong end. It’s too bad he's addicted to low=grade self-loathing, cheap despair, the curl of empty cigarette papers caught fire and turning to dust that washes away too soon. And he thinks it won’t, it doesn’t throw off his game; part of him is hoping that it will but it hasn’t yet, not really. It will, at some point, but even then Aomine’s probably going to be the best option Imayoshi’s got, the ace, to do as he pleases. And it’s not like benching him will do much if he thinks he doesn’t really want to play that much; it’ll dig him deeper into that second drug, the longer high, the denial, pervasive in his sweat.  
  
Imayoshi’s not the kind of captain who’s here to talk through his players’ problems like a therapist. Sprained ankle, anxiety, shit going on in your life, whatever. As long as you can still play and don’t fuck up too much, then you do it. That’s the Touou way; there’s a line between basketball and everything else, sharply drawn on the court. You leave your warmup jacket on the sidelines, the same place you leave your feelings, your hopes and dreams and fears. It makes basketball a hell of a lot easier that way.  
  
Aomine’s a mess, bleeding that stuff all over, and he’s still good. He looks at Imayoshi, almost helpless like he wants to kiss him on the court, something or another, before hsi face changes and hardens again and Imayoshi thinks that maybe he’s made a mistake. The low-grade, desperate, denying ace is no challenge; he’s just a kid who Imayoshi’s going to get fucked up and feel bad about it later, but not bad enough to stop now, not bad enough to stop before it turns into a real problem. So maybe he’s addicted in his own way—maybe he wouldn’t go that far, but maybe he’s in just as much denial as Aomine. At least that makes them suited to each other.


	95. akashi & haizaki, nba au

Akashi’s always looked at Haizaki like he was a fraud, an interchangeable part, a piece of trash, a weak link. Fuck that; fuck him; Haizaki hadn’t need him and his precious titles and fucking middle school championships to make it to the NBA his own way, even if it was fighting the whole way there. Akashi’s never had to fight like that a day of his life, so he’s got time and effort to spare in giving looks like that, bing a different kind of shitty person.   
  
Haizaki really, really wants to trip him up, those shiny black sneakers (what does he do, buy a new pair every game?) and yeah, it’s early, but he’d like to foul him. He’d like to fuck him up, lay a hand where no one else dares, because he’s their precious fucking absolute whatever the hell he is. Maybe that’s exactly what mister perfect all according to plan all along wants him to do, or that’s how he’ll play it off, but who gives a fuck? Akashi would prefer to do what makes Akashi mad, but he’s not going to spite himself over that. If what he wants and what Akashi wants coincide and they both end with Akashi falling to the ground, maybe that ain’t such a bad thing.   
  
So Haizaki fouls him when he takes the shot, knee-on-knee, and down Akashi goes to the ground. The refs blow the whistle; of course the shot goes in and it’s now a fucking three-point play. Coach calls a quick timeout just to yell at Haizaki but leaves him in the game, so all in all he can’t complain (even about the free throw, which of course Akashi makes). Haizaki doesn’t even pretend to act contrite; there’s not enough time for that, and Akashi will get groveling from everyone else. Not him.  
  
He’s not going to let Akashi psych him out, even when he shoots a few nasty threes and gets in a dunk (still ridiculous, got to be cheating; Haizaki thinks about telling the refs to check Akashi’s fucking sneakers but it’s not worth giving Akashi the satisfaction of knowing he’s got Haizaki’s attention). And what’s the shame in accepting the challenge as it is? So Haizaki’s a bit of a ballhog sometimes, but when he’s got the ball good things tend to happen, because there’s an awful lot in Haizaki’s arsenal. When he steals things, he doesn’t give them away afterwards; they’re just his own for the using, mixing like a DJ on the turntables. Twos, threes, steals, blocks, dribbles down the court at lighting speed. Who’s the emperor now, huh?   
  
(The Lakers win, but Haizaki considers it a draw overall. Akashi sits out the last ten minutes; Haizaki’s got more points, more blocks, more rebounds, more everything. Can’t argue a triple-double with a win, because it’s not the playoffs yet, can you?)


	96. kikuro, need to be needed

“You always liked me best when I needed you, Kurokocchi.”  
  
Kuroko smiles, mysterious, a soft glow, the pulse of a nightlight. “Everyone needs to be needed.”  
  
That’s true; Kise knows enough about people for that to not even consciously register as a thing to him, the way the world is round or the rainy season comes every year, but Kuroko needs to be needed most of all. As if when he’s unnecessary, he’ll fade away into the shadows and be unable to return without something to reach through blindly and find him.   
  
He’d woven himself into the fabric of Teikou, before Kise had even gotten there, and if he’d been pulled on it would have all unraveled. It all had, long after Kise had been woven in, but it was Kuroko’s threads, entrenched in the plays, in the philosophy, continually reaching to the others, calling attention to himself, that he was there. It’s something Kise can empathize with, though he’d found Kuroko’s slippery way of pretending he didn’t want attention sometimes to be a little distasteful. Everyone needs to be needed; everyone needs attention; it's fine if you want it more, as long as you deserve it, and Kuroko does, so it’s not an issue or a thing. He’d done the same thing at Seirin, this time from the beginning, that he could teach, he could pass, he could make things happen; he held the key; he knew all of his former teammates best, and how to beat them. Kise supposes that much had been somewhat true, but perhaps—no, Seirin couldn’t have managed without him, because Kuroko had designed it that way, all of the pieces falling on him, all of the responsibility on his shoulders, as neither captain nor ace.  
  
It’s the same thing in the way Kuroko fiercely clings to things, to people; he voices himself, says he’d been there the whole time even when he hadn’t, leaving a mark, getting people to see. See me; I am here.   
  
Kise has always seen Kuroko, even if he hasn’t always needed him in every way. He still doesn’t completely, but, he thinks, enough for Kuroko to turn his favor again.  
  
“I need you now,” Kise says.  
  
“I know,” says Kuroko, pecking his lips.  
  
The smile is still on his face, a ghost etched more permanently than that. I did that, Kise thinks, because he likes being needed, too; he needs it just as much as Kuroko does.


	97. aoaka, freak

They call each other names they don’t mean, everything in each other’s bad press, selfish, lazy, disaster, bad move, stupid, bothersome, overrated. And then some, less inventive, whore, slut, dumbass, fuckface, loser, inelegant words rolling off their tongues like they were made to be spat out of their mouths like glass marbles accidentally half-swallowed. But no choking; there’s never any of that. They mean them with affection, but not as literal, not really; it’s more about the sound and the venom than the definition in the dictionary, where all this is leading, the kiss and the touch that come with each one. Fingers tangled, pressed to insides of thighs, kisses up each other’s stomachs, twists of each other’s nipples, longer kisses on mouths, open, until their lungs feel like they’re burning as they croak out another set.   
  
It all comes back to the one word, given, when the two of them had been so young, bestowed like a curse.  
  
“Freak.”  
  
Spat out by opponents, whispered by opposing coaches to their so-called stars (“Don’t measure yourself against Teikou; they’re all freaks”, “That Aomine’s such a freak so just focus on the others” “Something’s wrong with that freaky Akashi kid”). A word that binds to their cells like a bad molecule, or maybe it’s good at this point, not out of any intentional reclamation but by virtue of it being the two of them. Freaks of nature, in a dunk contest locked with each other, dragged deeper into the zone, one on one until sundown, sweat pouring from their faces. They loom large even now, in the best league in the world, where they’ve supposedly yet to hit their primes. They are freaks; they are monsters; they are what other people don’t understand, have never understood.  
  
They’ve always been lonely, only children; they’ve had friends but never anyone asleep on the other side of a bedroom, never anyone they were forced to share their lives with. This, though, is a conscious choice, a meeting of freak-on-freak (and there’s another way of saying freaky, which, well, they can get that way when they want, when the offseason is long and they’re bored and up for a challenge, the flip side of basketball, stretch their other muscles). But the two of them fill an awful lot of space together; they don’t need anyone else, anything else, to be a hell of a lot less lonely.


	98. aoaka, criminal au

  
Akashi senses, perceives, knows things before they happen, subtle accumulation of how to manipulate people by understanding, exploiting. Aomine’s not nearly so complex on the surface; his thoughts go deeper but that’s a whole different beast than the one he becomes in the fray. He trusts his instincts, his lack of form; Akashi tells him to go and keeps up with his strategy before Aomine can even really know what he's going to do.   
  
“Police outside,” Aomine mutters. “Probably SWAT team.”  
  
They’re crawling around, behind the concrete pillars, harder to pick up traces of their bodies. The guns are a few meters away; there’s a low half-wall of this half-built place; the cops aren’t going to burst in unless they’re totally sure. Once they get upstairs it should be easier, but getting there, well. That’s a challenge.   
  
“Yes, it’s a SWAT team,” says Akashi. “Do you need a minute?”  
  
There’s a sarcastic quirk to his mouth; if they had a little more time maybe Aomine would try and fail to kiss it off. But they’ve got more important shit to do; the guns are in arms’ reach, a grenade strapped to the barrel of his own rifle; bless Akashi’s planning and forethought.  
  
“You’re the best, Babe.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
They strap the guns to their back with practiced quiet; Aomine palms the grenade. It feels cold, solid in his hand (not so much when he pulls the pin, but there’s time before that). They creep up the stairs, staying low, low, Aomine eyeing Akashi’s ass above him with approval and Akashi can’t say he’s not playing into it. On the higher floors, they can’t see the silhouettes on the outside of the glass but that’s okay. They reach the roof quickly; Akashi peers through the dusty window at the top, then ducks down.  
  
“Snipers. Probably the next one over, too.”  
  
It’s nothing they can’t handle, nothing they haven’t handled before, but still. Aomine takes Akashi’s hand; the grenade’s pressed between them and Akashi stands on his tiptoes to give Aomine a kiss.  
  
“For luck?”  
  
“I don’t need luck,” says Akashi.  
  
“Me, either,” says Aomine. “Just in case.”  
  
“Cover the bases.”  
  
Akashi pushes the door down; it falls as a shield for the first shots, slower than they’d expected. Aomine throws the grenade and jumps the other way, already hoisting the rifle into his hands and shooting when he’s halfway there, trying to take out as many of them as he can. He can here the quiet rhythm of Akashi’s weapon in the background, singing its tune, and they’ll make it to the getaway car like they always do; Aomine knows it.


	99. teppei/riko, ldr

“Upgrade your phone plan,” he’d said, and she had, to a better network, more expensive; she puts in more hours helping out at the gym and her dad pays her a little bit more; she saves for accessories and never buys them, puts in installment payments on a deluxe phone with better wi-fi connectivity so she can make those calls across the ocean, to where Teppei is.   
  
He’d seemed so far away that year he’d been in the hospital, distant, unreachable; when she’d visited him there had been so little to talk about sometimes, as if they were pieces of the earth’s crust sliding together, miniature earthquakes and tsunamis rising up but never going anywhere. Separating, until they’d broken up without breaking up, until he’d asked her if they were done. She’d said yes, even though making it official had made it all the more real, the two of them as separate. Not that they’d leaned on each other much, anyway, and maybe that had been the problem (both of them too independent, too impatient). Maybe Riko’s projecting again.   
  
The signal still cracks; the delay’s too long; she starts laughing and it takes him nearly two seconds to start, just as he’s heard hers in Los Angeles and the time it takes to come back, but it still feels like he’s overcompensating. It still reminds her he’s not here; he won’t be back before they graduate. He’ll have been gone for more of high school than he’d been here, and she wants him home. Yeah, it’s state of the art facilities, experimental surgery that’s only done on that one place on earth, but why couldn’t they come here? Why couldn’t they fly him back for therapy? Riko’s being selfish; she does want Teppei to do what’s best for himself. That’s not being here, being with her in any sense of the phrase, but that doesn’t stop her from wanting him all the time.  
  
She hadn’t missed him this much, even seeing him across the court, not hers, even thinking about him right after he’d asked and she’d responded, him in the hospital bed and her in the classroom, done with the short bit of reading early, doodling basketballs in the margins.  
  
“Come back,” she says. “You will, right?”  
  
“I know, Riko. I’ll be back soon.”  
  
She sighs, and wonders if her cell mic had picked up on that. Probably.  
  
“You’d better mean that,” she says, and he laughs.  
  
“Or I’ll have you to answer to?”  
  
“Damn right.”


	100. aokise, you can't

  
“You can’t do it,” Aomine says, sprawled against the wall, sucking down a bottle of water.  
  
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” says Kise.  
  
He tries again, going after the dribble, almost getting there but his legs tangle and he trips forward, the basketball skittering out of his hand and rolling along the floor until it comes to rest at Aomine’s side. Aomine picks it up and spins it on a finger.  
  
“Not bad, Kise.” (Better than Aomine had been expecting, at least; he’s a quick learner, accelerating the amount of basketball knowledge he can absorb, like an amoeba getting a larger and larger surface area, which makes a little bit of sense, enough for Aomine.)  
  
“You’re making fun of me!”  
  
“No,” says Aomine.  
  
He could watch Kise try all afternoon, the determination, the sweat on his pretty face, the sharpness in his eyes. It’s refreshing; it’s flattering how much Kise wants to do his moves, even if it’s not something Aomine’s going to do again, maybe something close. With Kise there’s a mirror image, a flawless imitation; with Aomine there’s nothing the same way twice, always changing, dynamic with the surface of the court, the callouses on his fingers, the way he keeps getting taller.   
  
“But you still can’t,” says Aomine.  
  
(“Does reverse psychology really work on him?” Kuroko had asked.  
  
“Well, he can’t, so it’s not like I’m forcing him to try,” Aomine had said, and Kuroko had narrowed his eyes.)  
  
Kise does it, finally, perfect copy, exhibition game, something Aomine had forgotten about, buried in the back of his memory along with the things he can’t bear to look at right now, maybe ever. But it call comes back, the crossover into a fadeaway, off-balance but Aomine knows right away, feels it in his muscles and bones, all the things he’d done before, that the ball’s going into that hoop, falling in off the backboard and through the net.   
  
“I told you not to tell me what I can’t do,” says Kise, after the game.  
  
And then he kisses Aomine, sweet and soft and slow, like he’d practiced, like he’d learned, like he’d waited for this moment in particular. Whoa. If this is what happens when Aomine tells him what he can’t do, then he’s just going to keep doing it for the reward if nothing else (and to provoke Kise, but he’s always been an easy target.)


	101. murahimu, reality

Tatsuya can’t believe it sometimes, a lot of the time, really. Why should he have gotten this chance? It had felt like he’d used up all of his options on love, burned all of his bridges before he’d even hit seventeen, and yeah life isn’t fair but that doesn’t mean it’s ever going to be unfair in his favor. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel guilty when he gets something he knows he doesn’t deserve, like this, at first.   
  
“Stop it,” Atsushi had said, kissing away the neutral expression on his face. “Who cares about that?”  
  
Tatsuya does; the world has always been unfairly divided, and why should he be the one who gets more chances here? Why should he be the one who keeps hurting the people who love him and get something clean, something where after punches and arguments and unhealthy one-sided competition, Atsushi still loves him, still wants him like this? And yet, he wants; he wants Atsushi; he wants those warm hands cupping his hipbones, the slow kiss tasting of processed sugar, the warm way Atsushi smiles at him, the weight of Atsushi draped over his shoulders, reading the book Tatsuya’s reading at twice the speed. He tries not to say how broken he is, until he does, until he feels too bad, until Atsushi stops him, finger to his lips.  
  
“Don’t say that shit about yourself.”  
  
How can he believe it’s not true?  
  
This used to be the kind of dream he’d fall asleep waiting for, where his faults were forgivable, or not there at all, where someone could see him as better than he is, where they could love that. Where he could forget about all the things that are still so wrong with him and fall asleep nestled close to Atsushi’s chest, only he doesn’t want to fall asleep.  
  
This reality truly is better than dreams, and sometimes Tatsuya doesn’t believe it. But it’s grounded by their differences, by their fights, the twisting rough road of their relationship, the wars of passive-aggressiveness they get locked into until they’re too sick of that to keep going, until Atsushi captures his hands, his mouth, until he kisses Tatsuya so hard that he has to believe it.  
  
Maybe this will all fall away, as transient as a very long dream. Maybe this isn’t forever, but by some strength of will, somehow, Atsushi’s made Tatsuya believe it can.


	102. aocest

Aomine’s got no rivals, no peers, when it comes to himself. He knows that all too well, like the lines in his palm, when he falls into another universe, a mirror of this one. In this one there’s the same house with the same front door key; the him who lives here keeps his bed the exact same way (or maybe there’s a different inhabitant, some other kid, born differently, but Aomine doubts that, especially when he reaches under the pillow and finds the same gravure that’s under his own pillow). He falls asleep in the bed, and wakes up to a dark sky and rustling around him.  
  
“Oh, you’re awake,” says the other him, from the other side of the bed, gravure magazine flipped open. “You didn’t jerk off in my bed, did you?”  
  
“It’s my bed, too, asshole,” says Aomine.   
  
He looks at the magazine, then at his other self’s face. “I could get you, though, if you get me.”  
  
The expression on his other self’s face turns to a grin. “Sure.”  
  
He knows himself well, feelings, thoughts, body. He’s never come this quickly when he jerks himself off; he’s never felt this warm with just the body he’s inhabiting as he does now, the covers pulled up on top of both of them, Aomine and his other self. It’s hard to misunderstand one’s own self, Aomine supposes, even if he’s different, even if things here are different in some way. He wakes up in a bed with only himself, no dent in the blankets from another occupant.   
  
The only one who can beat Aomine is Aomine, and the only one who can love Aomine is Aomine. Sure, there are times when he hates himself, when he looks in the mirror and looks away, when he doesn’t want to be like this, the way he’s made himself, the way the world has made him. But there are more times when he falls into bed with a person who looks and acts and thinks the same as he does, who falls asleep in nothing but socks, who drools in the same spot on the pillow, who hugs him when he needs it but doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to admit it, when both of them need it. It’s like getting caught in a rough surf, the waves washing over and around him. (The only one who gets him is him, too.)


	103. mura & mido, careers

Bad things are unavoidable, even when you follow Oha-Asa completely. You can do everything humanly possible and still come out on the bottom; even the luckiest and the strongest people get sick, lose loved ones, die someday. They are all dragged toward the center of the drain like roaches caught in a bathtub, and they’ll all get whipped around and hit by the water. At least Midorima’s got a usual companion in his suffering, although he’d prefer, especially when bad things happen to him, that they don’t happen to Murasakibara.  
  
It had been like that in middle school, the whole team, the two of them and Akashi and Aomine and Kise and Momoi and Kuroko and Coach Shirogane, even Haizaki to an extent. Yes, much of this had been their own making, pushing and pulling from one or two in the wrong direction or too carelessly. It had been unavoidable, all of them breaking through, but they had. They had suffered, though it all gets laughed off by people outside the situation (oh, yes, they say, unbearable talent, what a trial to have undergone). Of course it could have been worse, but that doesn’t mean it hadn’t been bad, that it hadn’t felt like a wrenching from deep inside Midorima, taking out all the things he had so carefully gathered in his arms.  
  
There had been less major things to suffer through, moving to a new country, several time zones away from each other but talking on the phone, meeting up when they’d been in the same city, both of them looking for a bit of home in each other, the years they’d spent in some form of shared experience, the same language, the same knowledge of each other. There had been the playoff losses, tough to swallow, tougher to stomach, like giant pills of poison they could not rid themselves of.  
  
And there is this, this mutual injury, Murasakibara’s shoulder and Midorima’s torn ACL, the surgery they’ll both have tomorrow, the team trainer who’s getting them both home, back to their shared apartment where they’ll argue over the television because they can’t work out, where they’ll sulk because they can’t play, where the end of next October feels like a lifetime away, the start of a new season, new pins and stitches holding their bodies together. But as long as it’s the two of them, they can handle it.


	104. ao & momo, "i like shorts; they're comfy and easy to wear!"

Daiki wears shorts a lot, even when the weather isn’t quite appropriate. Satsuki’s first thought is that it’s unfair; her parents make her swap out her own shorts and short skirts over bare legs for pants and thick stockings as soon as they see the first red leaf in the fall. The second is, why does he? Even in the summer it’s occasionally cool enough for something longer, and even when they’re playing basketball they don’t have to wear shorts.  
  
“Why do you wear shorts so much?” she asks.  
  
“I like shorts! They’re comfy and easy to wear,” says Daiki.  
  
Satsuki supposes he’s got a point. They’re easier to pull on than something longer; he’s a boy so he doesn’t have to wear skirts but they’re usually more trouble than they’re worth, blowing up and earning Satsuki a scolding from her parents to be more careful not to show her underwear to the world. Shorts are cool in the summer; the kind they wear for basketball are light and breathable and not too tight around the waist. Daiki grows fast, and the same pair of basketball shorts last him all summer even though he has to get his pants let out or swapped for the next size up.   
  
Satsuki stays over at Daiki’s house a lot; they stay up late in the back yard catching bugs and looking at the stars, trying to pick out constellations and planets through the city lights, because even when all the houses on the block are dark there's still enough from the rest of the city to block it. Or at least, that’s kind of how Satsuki’s grandmother had explained it to her; she’s not sure if that’s the truth or the kind of lie adults tell children when they don’t know something or don’t want to explain.   
  
She forgets pajamas and a change of clothes; she’d been sent over with everything else, a fresh-baked cake as a thank you from her mother; her favorite teddy bear. It’s too late to go back over, so she just borrow’s a shirt and a set of Daiki’s old basketball shorts. Already, she has to look up to look him in the eye, but the shorts still fit her, soft and loose, easier to sleep in than her own pajama sets. Shorts are definitely the way to go, she thinks, as she drifts off to sleep next to Daiki, who’s already drooling and hugging her teddy bear.


	105. aokuro, warm

They meet the night after Touou’s loss. It’s cloudy, but not threatening rain, too warm for snow (they never get much of that here, anyway). Their breath is visible, clouds in the air, and Daiki thinks about the first winter of middle school that they’d been friends, right before they’d gone a little further than that.  
  
Daiki would have lent Tetsu his jacket if he wasn’t so damn cold himself (he hadn’t expected to be out this late, and he knows Satsuki always tells him to listen to the weather report, but still) and if Tetsu had seemed cold at all. But he’s placid, hands in pockets, comfortable. Comfortable with the way things are now, this ending of whatever, of everything between them. That’s what this is; Tetsu’s gotten the win he needed in order to shake this off of him, to move on from Daiki. Sure, he's not free of Teikou, but he’s got another couple of years to beat Murasakibara and Akashi, to settle his personal beefs with them, but they’re nothing like this (or at least, Daiki would like to believe he’s special in this regard—of course he was; he’d been Tetsu’s fucking boyfriend, and neither of them is going to say this has anything to do with basketball).  
  
“So this is it, huh?” says Daiki.  
  
He’s always the one to crack and say things first; Tetsu’s got the patience of a glacier, of a rock waiting for something to fall so it can start an avalanche. Daiki’s the one who pushes it off the mountain and watches the snow fall.  
  
“What do you mean, Aomine-kun?"  
  
“You. Me. We’ve got nothing to do with each other now, right? That’s what you were waiting for. You beat me; I lost.”  
  
“Why would I want nothing to do with you?” says Tetsu.   
  
Daiki shrugs; he’d had a whole thought process mapped out but it's all falling out of his mind, off a cliff. “Uh. Because you want to move on from the past?”  
  
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want you in my life,” says Tetsu. “I was thinking of this more as a beginning.”  
  
“Of?”  
  
“This,” says Tetsu, and he brushes his fingers against Daiki’s, so much more confidently than he had the first time at Teikou.  
  
“Oh,” Daiki breathes. “Shit. Yes. Please.”  
  
Tetsu’s fingers latch onto his; they’re warm from being in his pocket, close to his stomach. Tetsu’s warm, Daiki thinks, and his stomach does a flip.


	106. aokaga, cop & fireman au

  
When Daiki has the late shift and Taiga’s not at the firehouse, he stays up late to wait for him. Some nights he’s more successful than others; this night is one of the resounding failures, but at least he’ll get some long-needed sleep. Taiga stretches out on the bed, his arm draped across Daiki’s spot, the spot he’ll be, crawling under as a half-awake Taiga cuddles him close and falls back to sleep before he can ask how the night went.  
  
At least, that’s the plan; that’s how it usually happens. Taiga wakes up at three in the morning to take a leak, and Daiki’s still not back; he doesn’t feel uneasy but maybe he should, and he psychs himself up enough to lie awake in bed, exhausted but unable to get back to sleep. He checks his phone, no new messages. Sometimes they get held up late on busts, difficult suspects, too much paperwork, any number of things. It doesn’t feel this scary when it’s the morning shift, though; maybe it’s because the night is so quiet. The trains outside have stopped running and Taiga closes his eyes, pleads—there’s a sound outside; his eyes snap open. The key is in the lock, and Taiga’s already at the bedroom door.  
  
“I’m home,” Daiki calls softly.  
  
“Welcome back,” Taiga says, enveloping him in a hug and—ew.   
  
Daiki smells like a strip club, cheap alcohol and sweat and dirty money; that’s got to be the cause. A bust somewhere, someone hustling drugs or some criminal frequenting some place a little too frequently, and someone had tipped off Daiki’s squad.  
  
“Take a shower,” Taiga says.  
  
“Too tired,” says Daiki. “You didn’t wait up, did you?”  
  
“Nah,” says Taiga, and Daiki still smells absolutely awful but all of a sudden the sleepiness is weighing down his body and he can just sleep with his mouth open or something.  
  
When Taiga wakes up, he realizes what a shitty decision that had been. Daiki smells even worse, and now that’s all over the sheets that Taiga had just washed the other day,   
  
“Take a fucking shower,” Taiga says.  
  
Daiki groans and buries his face in the pillow. “We got the guy, Taiga; gimme a reward.”  
  
“Can you smell yourself? The shower’s your reward."  
  
Daiki flips him off, but it’s only a few minutes before he heads off, dropping his clothes as he goes, to clean himself off. Taiga supposes he’d better change the sheets now.


	107. ao & momo, make you cry

Daiki’s made her angry, sad, desperate. He’s made Satsuki cry more times than he can count, on purpose (shoving frogs in her face) and accidentally (pushing her too hard to the ground) and on purpose but when he feels bad about it because he feels like he’s about to cry, like his eyelids and throat are permanently swollen, like he’s got to drag someone down and it might as well be Satsuki. They can share victory; they can share memories; there’s no one else Daiki trusts to share his pain.  
  
He’s made her unhappy, unhappy as when your pet dies, as unhappy as as when you’ve been ditched in the middle of the city by your friends and you have to scrounge up change on the floor of a fast-food establishment to afford a subway ride, as unhappy as when someone puts your cake out in the rain and all the sweet green icing flows down and then you lose the recipe, and on top of that you can’t sing worth a damn. Not that any of that’s happened to Daiki, but he can fucking imagine, and even that isn’t quite getting at the sorrow and pain he’s heaped on Satsuki over the years.  
  
It’s just. It’s no excuse (a shitty one, anyway) but he loves her like a sister; she loves him like a brother. There’s never been any need to think their love was anything but conditional. Everyone else leaves; Tetsu leaves and Kise leaves and all of them fucking leave. Satsuki stays with him, even when he’s rotten to the core, which is all the time now. That’s no reason to do this; it’s even less of a reason to do this. She’ll love him no matter what and he lashes out at her, even though lashing out at someone who sees him as disposable would—well, they’re all going to leave in the end; this just speeds the whole process up.   
  
If he keeps this up, she’ll leave. She can love him with all her heart and still step away, tell him not to do this, that he can’t do this, that he can’t do this to her. That she deserves better, because she does; Satsuki deserves a best friend who’s kind to her and puts up with her the way she puts up with Daiki, who does things with her instead of sulking in his room, who goes to basketball practice if only to hang out with her. Who doesn’t make her sad and angry all the time, who doesn’t make her cry.


	108. ao & momo, make you cry

Daiki’s made her angry, sad, desperate. He’s made Satsuki cry more times than he can count, on purpose (shoving frogs in her face) and accidentally (pushing her too hard to the ground) and on purpose but when he feels bad about it because he feels like he’s about to cry, like his eyelids and throat are permanently swollen, like he’s got to drag someone down and it might as well be Satsuki. They can share victory; they can share memories; there’s no one else Daiki trusts to share his pain.  
  
He’s made her unhappy, unhappy as when your pet dies, as unhappy as as when you’ve been ditched in the middle of the city by your friends and you have to scrounge up change on the floor of a fast-food establishment to afford a subway ride, as unhappy as when someone puts your cake out in the rain and all the sweet green icing flows down and then you lose the recipe, and on top of that you can’t sing worth a damn. Not that any of that’s happened to Daiki, but he can fucking imagine, and even that isn’t quite getting at the sorrow and pain he’s heaped on Satsuki over the years.  
  
It’s just. It’s no excuse (a shitty one, anyway) but he loves her like a sister; she loves him like a brother. There’s never been any need to think their love was anything but conditional. Everyone else leaves; Tetsu leaves and Kise leaves and all of them fucking leave. Satsuki stays with him, even when he’s rotten to the core, which is all the time now. That’s no reason to do this; it’s even less of a reason to do this. She’ll love him no matter what and he lashes out at her, even though lashing out at someone who sees him as disposable would—well, they’re all going to leave in the end; this just speeds the whole process up.   
  
If he keeps this up, she’ll leave. She can love him with all her heart and still step away, tell him not to do this, that he can’t do this, that he can’t do this to her. That she deserves better, because she does; Satsuki deserves a best friend who’s kind to her and puts up with her the way she puts up with Daiki, who does things with her instead of sulking in his room, who goes to basketball practice if only to hang out with her. Who doesn’t make her sad and angry all the time, who doesn’t make her cry.


	109. akamayu, the natural one

“So, which of your eyes is the natural one?” says Mayuzumi.  
  
Akashi doesn’t answer, both eyes glancing up and down Mayuzumi with mild disinterest, as if now that basketball is over he has no use for people of Mayuzumi’s ilk (that’s rich, coming from a first-year, even if he is the student council president). Mayuzumi can’t see that either eye has the telltale ring of a contact, but to have heterochromia when neither eye is a very natural color—Mayuzumi will be generous and say he’s simply skeptical.   
  
“How long has your hair been grey?” says Akashi.  
  
Mayuzumi sneers. It’s been that way his whole life, but he’s always thought it made him look distinguished. His face is young; he doesn’t act like an old man, certainly. And it matches his eyes, which are also fairly unusual, but less so than fire engine red and canary yellow. They’re dark grey, almost brown-black, usual enough not to get him picked out of a crowd.   
  
So this is a draw, then, as Akashi walks away. Maybe he can’t always win; maybe sometimes he’s only half-right.  
  
*  
  
The eyes, that brilliant red hair; they’re captivating. They probably would be even if Mayuzumi wasn’t trying to figure it out. Akashi’s got to have a hairdresser at his beck and call at that mansion he lives in, because his roots are always the same bright crimson. He’s never not wearing his contacts, either; even when there’s pollen in the air (though of course seasonal allergies don’t seem to affect him at all) and even when they’re at training camp, first thing in the morning Akashi’s eyes are still red and yellow. That can’t be good for his health, but Mayuzumi’s not going to bother.  
  
“Why are you looking at Sei-chan?” Mibuchi asks.  
  
As if he’d ever deign to speak to Mayuzumi beofre all of this, as if he’d ever seen the world beyond himself and Hayama and Nebuya. Still, Mibuchi’s the vice captain; he seems to want to be friends with Akashi even if he’s not.  
  
“I’m trying to see the color of his roots.”  
  
“His hair is natural,” says Mibuchi with a sniff.  
  
Mayuzumi snorts (as if).  
  
*  
  
He’s close enough to kiss Akashi but there’s still no telltale blue ring around either iris, no indicator of any kind of contact lens. They don’t make them this well, do they? (Though, if they do, Akashi would have a pair.) And then Akashi’s lips are on his, and Mayuzumi forgets all about contacts and hair roots. Who gives a shit right now when the kiss is too good?


	110. mura & tatsuya & taiga, in the kitchen

Making food with Tatsuya is always good, but making food with Tatsuya and Atsushi is…interesting, if Taiga’s being diplomatic about it. He knows Atsushi’s Tatsuya’s friend; he knows Atsushi isn’t a bad guy, but he’s just irritating in so many ways. Like the way he hovers over Tatsuya, when this is supposed to be Taiga’s time with Tatsuya, or how messy and careless he is in the kitchen. Tatsuya’s messy, too, but it’s in a way Taiga’s used to, a way he’s familiar and comfortable with. This is like uncontrolled chaos, flour everywhere, a finger in the cake batter and licking it off.  
  
“What’s wrong with that?” says Atsushi. “We’re the only ones eating it.”  
  
“Yeah, but what if you’re sick? What if you get salmonella from the raw eggs?”  
  
“I won’t,” says Atsushi, completely undisturbed.  
  
Taiga looks at Tatsuya, trying to plead; Tatsuya ruffles his hair. “It’ll be all right.”  
  
“I’m not footing your hospital bill for food poisoning,” Taiga grumbles. “Can’t it wait?”   
  
“I’m hungry now,” says Atsushi.   
  
Tatsuya lets him lick the blades of the electric mixer, too, and Taiga’s not going to start shit with Tatsuya over this—it probably won’t poison him, but still. It’s not the way they’ve cooked before, always careful, Tatsuya the one who’d reminded Taiga he might get sick until Taiga had known it better than the recipes.   
  
Once the dessert is out of the oven (why had they made it first? Because of Atsushi, oh, right, because Taiga hadn’t felt like arguing and Tatsuya had said it was fine) Atsushi takes two cookies, hot enough to burn his mouth. At least he doesn’t complain about that; he just takes three more. (Is he planning on eating like, forty? They’re having actual food, too.)  
  
At lest he doesn’t eat any of the raw meat; he mostly lets Tatsuya and Taiga handle the lasagna themselves, and it feels almost like being back home, dealing with Tatsuya’s usual mess, sidestepping and cleaning as they go. Taiga’s just ignoring how many cookies Atsushi’s eating by now; he’s set aside a few for Taiga and Atsushi at least.  
  
They sit down to eat, and Taiga’s ravenous; he cuts himself about half the lasagna and Tatsuya cuts smaller slices for him and Atsushi. Atsushi stares at Taiga’s plate as he digs in.  
  
“What?” says Taiga  
  
“You’re eating all of that? How do you have room for dessert?”


	111. takamido, willing to try

  
It’s easy to say that they’re friends but Midorima doesn’t know what friendship really is, what it feels like—he’s had friends, but it’s unquantifiable, when they’d started being his friends or when they’d stopped. He’s just known, just been unsure and realized in hindsight that they had or hadn’t. He’s pretty sure Takao is his friend, for now, as well as his teammate and classmate, but what if Midorima says something or does something? What if one small thing sours Takao on him?   
  
One thing, unless it was something major, like Takao turning out to be a murderer or something, wouldn’t be enough to make Midorima denounce Takao as a friend, but maybe that has to do with the other set of feelings, thick in his stomach, whenever Takao looks at him in a certain unreadable way. But before that, before the feelings had announced themselves, he still wouldn’t have let it all slip away due to one argument, one misunderstanding, one difference of opinion.   
  
“Shin-chan," says Takao, like he knows exactly what’s going through Midorima’s mind (the way he always seems to).  
  
“Takao?”  
  
“I like you,” says Takao.  
  
He does know; Midorima smiles and then. Oh. Takao’s hand slips into Midorima’s, and, oh. Takao likes him. Midorima’s bad at reading people, perhaps the reason for his preoccupation with the most loyal suddenly turning fickle, but he knows what this means.   
  
“Is this the only reason you wanted to be friends with me?” It comes out harsh and accusatory, in a way Midorima doesn’t really mean.  
  
“Well, a little bit,” says Takao. “I respect if you don’t want it; I won’t stop being your friend. It’ll be awkward, but I'm glad we’re friends.”  
  
“I mean. Do you want me to go out with you?” says Midorima.  
  
“Well, that’s usually the point of a confession,” says Takao, easy smile.   
  
“I don’t know how to be. A boyfriend,” says Midorima. “But.”  
  
No one had instructed him on how to be a friend, either, and he's done okay so far, hasn’t he?  
  
“I’m willing to try. I want to try with you. I like you, too, Takao.”  
  
As a return confession it’s pretty bland, not the way Midorima had scarcely let himself imagine, but Takao seems delighted. His smile spreads wider on his face; he squeezes Midorima’s hand (Midorima remembers that they’re holding hands, that they’ll do this more often now.) And Midorima can’t help but smile back.


	112. liuhimu, crying on the train

Himuro cries on the train ride back to Akita; he pretends he doesn’t and Liu’s okay with that in theory. He’s used to younger brothers pretending to act like adults, who never cry (when Liu’s old enough to know they only cry where children can’t see them); he’s not much of a crier himself but he understands the urge. This wasn’t really about the loss (the sharp bruises from that are already fading on both of them); it wasn’t about the physical bruises Himuro won’t talk about either (at least Liu thinks it’s not); this was about Seirin’s ace, Himuro’s—friend? Brother? Boyfriend? Something unlike any?  
  
They’re not close enough where Liu can just ask why he’s crying, not far enough away to be strangers, in the zone where Liu can ask again (of course, not close enough for Liu to know for certain anyway, though he doesn’t think anyone’s close enough to Himuro for that). But it’s just the two of them in this compartment, captain and vice captain as they’ve been named, Liu’s crush on Himuro probably beaming right into Himuro’s brain like a radio tuned to the perfect frequency. (Maybe that’s why Himuro’s crying, because he knows Liu likes him—the thought is ridiculous, and it almost makes Liu snort out loud.)  
  
Himuro stares out the window, the countryside flying by too fast to see. What’s the proper thing to say in a situation like this? Never mind Japanese etiquette (Himuro doesn’t really get it, either; it’s the first thing that had made him seem relatable, of this world; it’s the first thing that moved him out of the firmly-unobtainable-don’t-you-dare column into the yeah-maybe-not-this-either column of Liu’s brain). What would make Himuro feel, if not okay, a little better?  
  
Liu pats him on the knee, and Himuro’s face whirls around, still red, his eye still leaking. “What?”  
  
“If you want to talk about it,” says Liu. “Or if you don’t. Whichever.”  
  
Himuro slumps; Liu fumbles in his pocket for the extra napkin he’d gotten at Starbucks that morning. “Here.”  
  
Himuro takes it, wiping at his face, blowing his nose. “Thanks.”  
  
His voice is hoarse; Liu mirrors his position, slumped against the seat back, legs spread, feet almost touching Himuro’s. Something brief and almost like a smile touches Himuro’s mouth.  
  
“Hey,” he says, sitting up, leaning on his knees, and Liu sits up, too.   
  
There’s what, less than half a meter between their mouths? Himuro stands up; for once he’s looking down at Liu, and Liu doesn’t mind this angle terribly--especially not when Himuro kisses him.


	113. liuhimu, words are only words

A word is only a word, a string of kanji on a street sign that Wei’s gotten better at reading, something uttered unconsciously in concentration, the pattern of Tatsuya talking to his parents on the phone as he does every once in a while, sounds strung together, Wei half-eavesdropping but he’s not prepared for the sudden way Tatsuya still drops Japanese phrases into English sentences, like eggs into vinegar to be poached, and he misses the meanings. The two of them don’t need too many words to settle between t hem—not spoken words. They think; they express these thoughts in ways that conveys the meaning, preserves the meaning. It’s like a lesson on writing; show, don’t tell. This can be explained, but it can also be revealed.  
  
It’s not that the language they use often is one neither of them is truly comfortable, Tatsuya’s first language, true, but lost a little to time, a living language detached from the culture that raises it for just long enough. It is that, a little bit; it was at first; they’re both better with English but there’s no reason to use that; it’s just that things are not a matter of language at all. (That might be the pervasive culture at Yosen; for all that the teachers emphasize that they’re hear to be immersed there’s always something, the reason Coach draws up her plays and points to them, because fucking Brankov can’t be bothered to learn more kanji—he takes his class notes in what is apparently Japanese written in the cyrillic alphabet, and is that really a step up from actual Bulgarian?) When practicality restricts your words, you find it easier to do without sometimes.   
  
What are words, when they can see and touch? The smooth surface of Tatsuya’s palm, soft like water; the way he rubs the end of his hair between his fingers, looking for split ends, the dissatisfaction (always there, if not always showing) making and appearance in his eye when Wei can’t tell anything’s changed; Tatsuya’s hands on Wei’s chest, on his arms, how he notes with a raise of his eyebrow and a smile that oh, yeah, he sees the progress Wei’s made with the weight training, even if no one else has besides Coach. It makes it easier for Wei to lift Tatsuya up, put him on his lap, wait just a few seconds for Tatsuya’s head to rest on his shoulder. It’s never as comfortable as Wei thinks it’s going to be, but it’s worth it every time.


	114. nijihimu, siren!tatsuya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blood and gore and all that

Tatsuya doesn’t have much of a sense of time anymore, if he ever had. He has been beckoning to boys on boats from the rocks for as long as he can remember, singing his song and batting his lashes, flashing his tail, never baring his teeth until their ships smash into the rocks. Some ships pass by; they know the art of avoidance. Tatsuya’s never been too mad; there are always fools, shitty navigators and people who think they’ll be the ones who are immune. No one is. They call, loud and clear, over the water, carried on the wind and straight into the sailors’ ears; drawing them forward, not with physics but with desire. Remember the ones you have left, the ones you will never come home to. The ones whose bodies were thrown overboard. Look at me; see them; see hope; see beauty; hear my song. Look at me, and believe that I’m yours.  
  
Every once in a while there’s someone a little different, no defiant snarl turning to the usual bliss and confidence, no panic reeled in. Tatsuya’s vision isn’t that great, but he can see the boat approaching as he sings, notes low and long. There’s a man at the prow, and no one else. A near ghost ship, a man doomed already (at least he’ll die happy). His eyes are fearless, fixed on Tatsuya’s face; his lip is curled, not traditionally handsome but more handsome than most. Tatsuya almost wishes he could keep the man, to play with him a bit, to hear his whispered hopes, long since dashed. He is singing louder, with a spirit he hadn’t known he’d had; he wants this man to come to him. He stares into the man’s eyes; the ship comes closer, closer.  
  
The man’s eyes are open when the ship crashes and he is thrown, in some happy accident of physics, to land right at Tatsuya’s side, impaled by the jagged edge of the rock, about to bleed out. Tatsuya cradles his head in his lap, cups his chin. The man reaches up to touch Tatsuya’s face, too; his gaze is gentle, forgiving Tatsuya’s nature. His hands are rough, as if used to manual labor, turning the prow of a ship with the force of himself. The man smiles at him, pure and strong and good, and Tatsuya’s not sure he’s ever felt this warm. It’s probably the blood leaking all over his tail; that’s all.


	115. aoaka, technically alcohol is a solution

Fancy drinks are a problem, maybe. Not for Aomine; he’s no alcoholic; he knows his limit is about half a weak cocktail and he’s gotten good at nursing one through the night so he doesn’t fall asleep (or, in his earlier days, puke, but even he’s not dumb enough to go that far by this point). They’re a problem for other basketball players, clearly; there are guys here with fat rings on their left hands hitting on the bartender; she’s an expert at ignoring them but smiling sweetly for tips. It’s a little bit weird and embarrassing to watch it all unfold.  
  
“Aomine.”  
  
Akashi nods at him, having slipped over from somewhere, probably hanging out with the other point guards who think they're so smart just because they’re trusted running some coach’s offensive plan. That’s a different problem than alcohol, though, isn’t it?  
  
“Techinically, alcohol is a solution,” says Akashi, swishing the wine in his glass like he’s some fancy kind of taster at an event, and he’s pretentious enough to be (or at least rich enough; Aomine lumps the two together a lot just for convenience).  
  
“To what?”  
  
“Chemically.”  
  
“Oh,” says Aomine.  
  
He’d barely stayed awake in chemistry in high school; the chem teacher had been his basketball coach and therefore very unlikely to fail him regardless (and hey, at least he’d been showing up to class most of the time). Akashi swishes the wine again and takes a small sip; the glass is already half gone (Akashi’s probably got more tolerance than Aomine, based on nothing but the fact that he can do fucking anything). He can probably actually taste the floral notes or whatever’s supposed to be there, anyway.  
  
Akashi's hand brushes Aomine’s elbow; Aomine’s not feeling drunk enough from his cocktail yet but, maybe. Akashi’s eyes are an open invitation, a set of red warning lights (brake lights on the car ahead of him, but Aomine can’t resist the urge to stomp on the gas).  
  
“Shall we?” says Akashi.  
  
Aomine leans in; he can smell the sour wine on Akashi’s breath. He’s never liked the taste much, but maybe, from Akashi’s lips, it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe, with Akashi looking up from this angle, from under his bangs, his smile a jagged curve, dangerous (Aomine’s going to have to slam the wheel, wrench it over; the turn’s coming up too fast). But Aomine just wants.  
  
“Yes," he says.


	116. torariko, then and now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> father/underage daughter incest, treated as squick in-universe

Riko had meant what she’d said, that she’d marry her father, way back when she was a little kid, too naive to know what it had meant, what the ramifications or implications would be. You marry the person you love; she had loved her father and that was that. So he was already married to her mother; so her mother had tried to explain. She’d loved him differently, she’d said, than Riko. It had been true; it’s true now, but Riko’s father loves Riko the same as he loves her mother.  
  
(Maybe he doesn't; maybe their relationship is bound to be different, all the things that have passed between them, the way he still protects her, threatens to beat up any boy that looks at her twice, as if she’s his to defend like the little girl she had been once. It’s like he can’t get past that; she’s still his little girl; he still folds her laundry, only now he buys her panties that he wants to see her wearing.)  
  
He lies with her in bed at night; he says it’s to keep her from having nightmares and her mother sighs and Riko wonders if she knows. She must know; her mother’s smart. Maybe she’s grateful for not having to deal with him. She stays up late playing video games, cursing into the headset; he slots his hand in hers when she’s waiting to respawn or for the screen to load; other times his hand’s up her skirt, or resting on her belly, playing with the waistband of her underwear. This is wrong, Riko thinks; it's completely wrong but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t push him off; she’s been known to fight with her parents about what they let her do, what they want her to do. She’s not sure if she wants this, though, and maybe it’s not worth giving her dad grief if it turns out she does. He’s her father; the thought of kicking him out of her bed seems so counterintuitive, counter to everything she’s ever been taught about family. Sometimes little girls grow up; she’s not a child; as her father he’s supposed to make her feel safe and she sure as hell doesn’t feel safe here, in his arms. But maybe she hasn’t grown up all the way yet; she can’t stand her ground and say she doesn’t want this; she’s not in the place where she doesn’t need her father. But she’s never been sure she’d needed him like this.


	117. kikuro, first impression

The first impression everyone gets of Kise is loud. Kuroko is no exception to this; the very first he’d thought had been annoying. Too much. He talks too much; his clothing is ostentatious; he whines and draws attention to himself and everyone flocks like mosquitoes to the porch light, like spectators to a car wreck in slow motion. There is more under the surface, churning waters, but Kuroko thinks, at first, that they must be equally loud. That even if there’s quiet, that’s something Kise doesn’t want.  
  
Kuroko doesn’t like to admit he’s wrong, and he’ll never tell Kise (though Kise will probably figure it out anyway) but he’s glad he was wrong about this. Without this side of Kise, they never would have ended up here, a couple, together; without this Kise their bond would be nowhere near as tight. These quieter emotions are what Kise shows when Kuroko lets him, gives him room, peels back the layers like dead skin, cracking on the dry top layer of an onion to see the soft beneath. Disdain, annoyance, true laughter, and ordinary quiet; that’s the Kise no one wants to see, but if you wait patiently enough—Kuroko does.  
  
They eat dinner together, boiled eggs on the side because Kuroko’s in charge and it’s still the thing he’s best at. Kise doesn’t complain about this (Kuroko wouldn’t let him get away with it if he did, because let’s see him try to make dinner), though he complains about other things. Work, annoying people who want too much of him. Kuroko’s pretty greedy, but he supposes he’s allowed to be, and he doesn’t want more than Kise’s willing to give him. Dinner’s mostly quiet, though; Kise doesn’t feel the need to fill the silences when it’s just the two of them, thinking his own thoughts and leaving Kuroko to his (the perception that Kise doesn’t have very many thoughts is, well, wrong; that’s even easier to see the error than the loud and the quiet). Kuroko is more comfortable in the silence, and it blossoms between them like a flower that comes out at night, beautiful, backlit by the bulbs on the lawn. Perhaps this was fate, Kuroko thinks, that they would find each other, mistake each other for something else at first, and yet push back the layers, determined to see what lies beneath, until they’re deep enough to be content with the quiet.


	118. aokise, boredom

Kise’s never thought there would be anything he’d never get bored with, never until basketball. Still, he’s never thought of any one person who wouldn’t prove to be just like the rest in the end, boringly predictable; he’s always been able to dive into the depths until he hits his hands on the bottom (better that than breaking off his teeth, overeager at some apparent answer to the ennui that always overtakes him in the end). At first, Aomine had seemed simple; yes his basketball had been captivating but Kise had assumed there would be a time when Aomine the person and Aomine, creator of good basketball, would become separate, diverge in Kise’s mind, and he’d pick the basketball (the basketball would pick him; Aomine would cease to be of any note himself).  
  
And yet. They fall asleep together every night, wake up sloppy sprawled all over each other; sometimes they have sex in the mornings and sometimes they just make breakfast or order in because they can afford it. People are boring and tend to talk about themselves too much; Aomine’s no exception and yet he’s still fascinated. Kise’s seen all of his body over and over again, all the moles and muscles and the tan lines that fade in and out, the lines on his palms, kissed over and over again, the texture of his skin, his rough fingertips.  
  
They play basketball every day, too; they rest every night just for this, wild on the court, one on ones or impromptu dunking contests, Kise matching Aomine’s every one and then surpassing it, pulling out tricks that are a hodgepodge of moves he’s seen, half-learned and half-remembered, immortalized as this. They go hard; they go long; they go into the zone and regret it later when they’re collapsed on the side of the court, but they’re tangled up in each other so maybe it’s not so bad, sweaty skin on sweaty skin, and if they could get away with taking their clothes off right there Kise would (and he’d pull off Aomine’s, too). They will never stop challenging each other, swinging the weights either way, pulling out from the potential that may never hit bottom for either of them, not that they can get to in a lifetime at least. And that’s enough for Kise to be not satisfied, never satisfied, but close to it, because he’s finally found someone who can keep up with him.


	119. aokisekasa, stuck like gum

They’re different together than they are when it’s each one with Kasamatsu; when it’s like that they look to him more, more conscious of the shrinking age gap (they are essentially peers, former upperclassman or not); it’s still cute to see them like that, though. It’s like how Aomine grins when he grabs Kasamatsu’s hand just because he can, or how Kise smiles at him in a certain way. Kasamatsu’s so fond of both of them, separately, in different ways. They’re different people.  
  
They’re almost different people when it’s the two of them and Kasamatsu; it’s really more like the relationship is different and the people are the same, turned to different facets so that they’re a triangle instead of a line segment (though Kasamatsu’s no mathematician). He shouldn’t expect it to be the same; it’s not an exact comparison but it’s like being alone with a friend or being in a group with them. This is a small group; this is still a relationship; it’s still different. There’s a new kind of challenge in both sets of eyes when they look at each other, when they look at Kasamatsu when they’re both around. It’s like which of them can do better, look better; they’re both vying for his attention as if it’s so small (it’s finite, sure, but it belongs to both of them at once). They both pull at him to take a side, to referee their own little matches in favor of one or the other, to team up and make it two against one, like squabbling children. When Kasamatsu scolds them, he can’t keep the affection from creeping into his voice; they’re annoying children but cute children, too; the look up at him with those terrible faces and he’s a thousand percent gone.  
  
And when it’s both of them at once, two of them, focusing hard on Kasamatsu, all of their slippery attention stuck on him like gum, grinning like sly cats, Kise in imitation of Aomine or Aomine in imitation of Kise? It’s hard to say; perhaps they’ve both fine-tuned this to make everything so much worse. Both of their arms snake around him; both of them kiss him on the cheek; Kasamatsu feels his body jump inside of itself, pure elation. God, they’re good; he’s not going to say it aloud (their heads are fucking swelled enough already). But they already know, and that much is okay.


	120. ao & momo, the future

They’ve done a lot of dumb shit for each other. It goes back to when they were kids, way back; they’d climbed tall trees and cried until their parents pulled them down, and when they’d looked up a few years later the trees hadn’t seemed so tall in the first place. They’d eaten wild mushrooms and hadn’t gotten sick; they’d pulled each other in the wrong directions, played in the dirt all day and come home with soil caked around their bloody, soiled knees.  
  
It seems so odd to Daiki that rough-and-tumble kids like them would appear so elegant now (or at least get described that way; he certainly doesn’t feel elegant even in his custom suits and when he looks at Satsuki it’s hard not to see the kid she’d been, what seems like not too long ago). They have high powered jobs halfway around the world from where they’d grown up staring at the trees, playing in the woods; Satsuki’s a big time agent and he’s a big time basketball player and they can still be pretty fucking dumb, despite the experience and education.   
  
Satsuki takes gambles with Daiki that she wouldn’t take with anyone else, because she knows he’ll forgive her, and because she knows they’ll probably work. She’s not one to try something on him that won’t, even if she wants it’ she doesn’t lose sight of the road on the way to the finish line. She never has; Daiki’s often taken the scenic route or stumbled along the way and she’s always come back to pull him along even when she’d had enough of her own shit going on.   
  
She gets him a better contract than is probably feasible with the salary cap, an extra year that they don’t want to give him, the salary broken up and half frontloaded, half backloaded, jagged pieces available for one year deals to stars, pickups at the trade deadline.  
  
“I want you to get paid, but I want you to win,” Satsuki says, her eyes shining bright like jewels.  
  
She works too late at her office in New York; Daiki gives up on figuring out the stupid subway system and takes a cab over to her office when he’s there on a road trip, lets himself in by sweet-talking the receptionist, and brings her takeout. It’s a hell of a lot better what either of them will probably ever be able to cook, but at least they know what they aren’t capable of. They’re stupid, but they’re not that stupid.


	121. aomurakagahimu, holding hands

Tatsuya and Taiga hold hands when they’re out late at night, the lights of the 24-hour Burger King fading behind them, sacks full of burgers in their free hands, big enough to clutch multiples. They feed them to each other when they get home, and Taiga lets Tatsuya keep the bags on the coffee table; they fall asleep on the couch, on top of each other, too warm in the summer heat but who gives a fuck.  
  
Daiki holds Atsushi’s hand when no one’s looking, some team dinner for the Cavs, the rookies in ill-fitting suits from big and tall stores, Daiki’s and Atsushi’s highly customized. Daiki thinks about the top button on Atsushi’s vest, open, his chest broad; he thinks about how closely they have to sit together, how red his cheeks get from half a glass of wine. Their pinkies are hooked together under the table while they drink their coffee after everything’s been cleared; no one comments that Atsushi’s using his left hand.  
  
Whenever he can, Daiki holds Tatsuya’s hand; when they’re lying on the couch with half a meter between them and Tatsuya’s got a book open on his lap; their pinkies hook together and their thumbs brush; their fingers tangle like coat hangers left in the back of the closet. It’s not long before Tatsuya leans over to kiss Daiki and the book tumbles out of his lap and the gap between their bodies vanishes.  
  
Taiga and Atsushi argue a lot, but it doesn’t come from a place of malice. They’ll argue when they’re getting along best, when they’re holding hands and watching over the stovetop (Tatsuya suggest a shared get along shirt, but they’re already getting along in their way). They hold hands more firmly as the argument heats up until finally it all evaporates and it’s just the two of them, silent and stubborn.  
  
Taiga slides into bed behind Tatsuya, spooning him and kissing his neck, one hand draped over his stomach and locking into Tatsuya’s. Tatsuya’s other hand isn’t pinned under him; he reaches out for Daiki’s; Daiki’s already halfway asleep and halfway facing him; he smiles and Taiga’s heart does a small thing; he hugs Tatsuya closer. On Daiki's other side, Atsushi’s sprawled out on his stomach, but one hand is on Daiki’s shoulder, his fingertips meeting Daiki’s (that has to be uncomfortable; they’ll fuck up their arms sleeping like that, but it’s too cute to say anything to disturb that, so Taiga doesn’t).


	122. kikasa, one for the road

It’s overwhelming, the feeling of everything Kasamatsu’s going to leave behind, as if he’s going to have to slam the door behind him and it's going to spill out, screaming at him to take it with him. It’s stupid; high schools are only temporary places and people have left behind much more than Kasamatsu will and turned out okay, left none of it clinging like burrs to their school pants when they try to sneak off and smoke in the little area behind the quad. Only he’ll be leaving the school uniform behind, grey slacks and matching jacket, shirt and tie. It’s going to be weird to attend classes in normal clothes, but thinking about that stuff is just a distraction from the bigger things, the people.  
  
Kasamatsu’s going to miss his teachers, for sure. He’s going to miss Coach Takeuchi; he already does (he’d believed in Kasamatsu when Kasamatsu couldn’t, given him the burden of captain with careful trust, let him handle things and given him space when he’d needed it the most, and now that Kasamatsu's not on the team he can’t exactly stop by and chat during practice unless he’s got a good reason). He’s going to miss the guys who have shared his hall since first year, loud and obnoxious and stupid sometimes (and a bunch of fucking bathroom hogs, all of them), but good acquaintances or friends, comrades, even.  
  
Kobori and Moriyama are headed to schools in Tokyo, too; they’ll be physically together, but, and this is where the anxiety sets in. What if they find the thing they’d been missing tucked away in Kanagawa like this? What if they drift away? The three of them will always have basketball; they’ll always have their years together at Kaijou. But there are new people, potential friends, significant others. Moriyama’s bound to hit it off with a woman one of these days, since he seems hell-bent on hitting on every single one in the country. And being in the same city makes it easier to lose touch, the convenience and comfort of knowing someone else is just five minutes away, so you don’t try to make room for them and fill the space with something else. They’re good friends now; will they be the same in a year?  
  
And then, well, Kise.  
  
“I guess this is goodbye,” says Kise, an attempt at a smile playing on his lips; his eyes are red (he’s cried enough already, and Kasamatsu feels fucking horrible for doing this to him even though they’d known all along this would happen).  
  
“Yeah, I guess so,” says Kasamatsu, and he leans up and kisses Kise (one for the road).


	123. murahimu, the kiss is in the middle

Himuro is evasive; he gives bits of himself, scattered, never the whole thing. It’s like a crumbled cookie, the last few potato chips at the bottom of the bag, sharp edges on his fingers and tongue, coated in too much salt. It’s like Himuro’s afraid he’ll run out of himself, that if he gives too much away there’s going to be nothing left, and that’s pretty fucking dumb. Murasakibara’s not too interested in where that had come from; it’s probably something so far back or ingrained in his nature that pulling it out would be like pulling a tooth and taking the jaw with it.   
  
And either way, Murasakibara wants all of Himuro, not just what little bits of himself he’s willing to give. He's been collecting pieces, the little hints and bits of things about Himuro that other people forget or don’t bother to piece together into the big picture; they see their initial impression, the foreign pretty boy, and keep it that way because they can’t be bothered (or if they can, the girls in Himuro’s class who giggle and send him pretty little notes with perfume and hearts, they’re too busy idealizing a fantasy that’s not what Himuro’s really like). There’s his heart, looks like it’s encased in ice from far away but burning bright, the mark that’s long since faded from Murasakibara’s face, the words he’d exchanged with that stupid Kagami, the guy who’d made him cry. Murasakibara wants to be the only one who can do that, but he also doesn’t want to make Himuro cry at all. He’s the kind of guy who cries too much already, so it’s better if he doesn’t.  
  
Himuro knows what Murasakibara’s doing; he pulls away, evades gracefully the way he does on the basketball court, a pass back or away, a shoot on the weak side, but Murasakibara knows how to block. And he’s going to take that as a challenge, not one that’s going to stand up against him. He knows how to move mountains with his weight, send backboards crashing to the floor. Who’s to say he can’t do the same thing with Himuro’s outer covering, tear it off to see the real person underneath, take Himuro all for his?  
  
(The kiss isn’t what starts it; the kiss is in the middle; Himuro gives—not himself, but something, something on the road to that, but it’s going to be a long time before Murasakibara's close to satiated.)


	124. aokise, inception au

He’d been a little to careless in the last extraction, let too many signs escape. It had been easy to see them afterward, easy to trace them back to him, and now they’re trying to gun Aomine down, of course.   
  
“You’re lucky I heard them before you did,” says Kise.  
  
“I’m lucky I made it out of that dream at all since you weren’t there,” says Aomine. “You going to help me again or not?”  
  
Kise’s done great as a solo artist, a master charmer, wooing targets and slipping secrets out of their mouths as if through sleight of hand; he’s a fucking magician. Aomine had once been that good, too, if with a different quality, brutal, hoisting a gun, straightforward. Even dream security teams couldn’t get past him, especially with Kise at his side, charming a client’s ass off to let down their defenses or holding a brighter, bigger gun of his own. No matter; they can’t slow time until they get out of here. Sakurai’s breathing heavy behind Aomine; Kise stands on the corner and a car pulls up, a beige sedan. They get in and the car drives off, through busy intersections and running a red where it can, faster than any sniper can ever get on foot, into the city where there’s too much activity for the gunmen to risk it even if they do find them.   
  
They take the service elevator down the dream, to the wide open room they used to know so well, where they’d trained, shot at each other (Kise’s a natural for hitting the bull’s-eye, and Aomine fucking hurts even now, wakes up to wonder if some dream bullet is still lodged in his gut). There’s nothing here right now except the two of them, and the tentative thought that Kise’s going to help out again.   
  
“I have a client. Big extraction job. She’ll get those losers off your tail if you help me,” says Kise.  
  
“Thought you said you could do it on your own.”  
  
“I can. But I thought you needed me, and it’s easier with you. Sakurai, too.”  
  
"Gee, thanks,” says Aomine.   
  
“Really,” says Kise. “Even here we don’t have much time to figure our way out of this.”  
  
“That’s your area, isn’t it?”  
  
“Fuck you,” says Kise, but he pulls Aomine in for a kiss.  
  
God, Aomine’s missed this, stupid arguments, running from people who want to kill them, the taste of Kise’s mouth, the expensive toothpicks he chews.


	125. kagahimu, clearing the air

Tatsuya had once thought, briefly, vengefully, that Taiga would be hit as hard as he was by being apart, or that he’d hoped Taiga would be. It’s another thing on the long list of things he’ll never be able to atone for completely, weighing on his guilty conscience like the ring around his neck used to (and still does sometimes). That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t admit it to Taiga, not for his own absolution but so that it doesn’t sit between them and slowly dig its fangs into their relationship, to clear the air that’s still smoggy (not quite like Los Angeles in the summer, but too thick nonetheless).   
  
“It did hurt,” Taiga says, his voice hoarse, and oh, shit.  
  
“Fuck, Taiga, I’m sorry,” Tatsuya says, but the apology seems too weak; maybe he was better off not knowing (maybe Taiga hadn’t needed to hear this, and maybe he shouldn’t have said it).  
  
“I mean, I was mad and that was part of it,” says Taiga, clearing his throat. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you like hell, that I didn’t want to show you around Tokyo or have you with me…even at the beginning, there was so much I wanted to tell you and do with you, and shit. You’ve already felt so bad over this; I don’t want to make it worse; I don’t want to make you hurt more.”  
  
But he’s hurting right now, and it’s pain Tatsuya had dealt, pain heh as to live with, pain he should carry. It’s a burden he’d created, by starting this.  
  
“Please, Tatsuya,” Taiga says, holding him closer, kissing his neck and then his mouth, firmly as if that decides it all. “I want to leave that in the past.”  
  
As if they could ever leave their messy past behind them; it’s already reared up and made things ugly; Tatsuya’s the one dredging it up, making amends for things Taiga wants to forget. Maybe he needs to stop; maybe they’ll be like shards of a bullet, buried in skin but cleared away from the worst bits, livable. Another wave of sadness, self-loathing, crashes on Tatsuya; Taiga hugs him even tighter, squeezing his waist.  
  
“Please don’t,” he murmurs, pulling Tatsuya into his lap, like he knows just what Tatsuya’s thinking.  
  
And Tatsuya couldn’t get away from his safe warmth right now even if he had the strength to try.


	126. aomuramido, no rules

There are no rules for a relationship like theirs. It's built on luck and chance, spinning of roulette wheels inside roulette wheels, the foundation so unsteady it’s almost built in the clouds, waiting for a rain to come and half of it to fall because there’s nothing holding it up in the air any longer. If this were a real physical thing that they could see, ropes as bonds holding the three of them together, a literal castle in the air, Midorima might be annoyed. But when it comes to this, he’s not; this is often the exception (because Aomine and Murasakibara themselves are so often the exceptions to all of Midorima’s rules).   
  
And it’s probably a good thing that there are no rules because Murasakibara gets traded from the Celtics to the Cavs, scratched before the game and Midorima’s already furious with disbelief. They get the news at halftime, in the locker room; Murasakibara looks a mix of calm and angry, and goddamn they should have given him a no trade clause. This feels like the threatening rain, except it’s Cleveland; if it had to be somewhere it might as well be there; if Midorima’s going to be lonely and miserable for another lonely, miserable Boston winter, at least Murasakibara’s going to be with Aomine.   
  
They hug goodbye; there’s not much more they can do.  
  
( _i gave mine-chin a hug from u_ , Murasakibara texts just minutes after saying he’s landed in Cleveland; Midorima tries to pretend the gaping hole in his chest isn’t quite so big.)  
  
They skype him, two heads filling the frame, Aomine chattering away like he had when it had been the other way around. It’s still difficult to be alone here, the space on the couch where Murasakibara used to sit, the bed too big without him (maybe he’ll go back to a hammock), buying the lucky item of the day suddenly almost boring again; it kind of sucks but it makes him warm all over to see Aomine and Murasakibara together, Aomine’s head resting on Murasakibara’s shoulder, the two of them scattering crumbs from a bag of chips everywhere (and they’re going to be unbearable over the summer, the two of them living together in a giant mess; they’re going to get rats for sure).  
  
“We’ll be up on a trip soon, Babe,” says Aomine. “We miss you.”  
  
Midorima’s chest tightens all over again, but it’s going to be okay (there’s no guidebook for this part, either).  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t get yourselves suspended.”


	127. aomurakaga, competition

It doesn’t start out as this kind of competition, but that’s the way it converges, like some calculus graph going off into infinity. It doesn’t start out anywhere, really, except when they’re all visiting Tokyo Taiga says he’d really enjoyed a restaurant Daiki had taken him to last time. Daiki beams; Atsushi pouts; both of them accept the challenge Taiga has no idea even exists.  
  
Atsushi drags him out to a bakery the next morning, flaking almond croissants and strong cappuccinos with beautiful art in the foam, cheese danishes that melt in Taiga’s mouth, rich bagels practically dripping with seeds, red velvet cupcakes that stain their teeth and tongues. Taiga says it’s delicious, and Atsushi kisses him in the foyer, long and sweet and sloppy.  
  
He lives in Chicago of all places, and he’s Taiga; he’s hard to impress but Daiki finally finds a restaurant he hasn’t been to, five stars, more expensive than Taiga likes (he can afford it, obviously, but he won’t). They hold hands under the table and slurp oysters from the shells, swish fancy wine that’s probably overpriced but enough to get Taiga to stop thinking about the bill. He grins at Daiki in the cab the whole way back, and Daiki doesn’t tell Taiga why he’s sending a selfie to Atsushi right now in particular (or why he takes another picture of the receipt).   
  
Atsushi makes cookies in the kitchen, piles and piles, enough to hold Taiga over for a few days; he learns how to make onion rings and weird dipping sauces that Taiga wouldn’t even try usually but since it’s Atsushi, he does.  
  
“It’s good,” he says, and Atsushi’s got the right to be smug (he’d actually put in some effort and labor on this one, not just his wallet).  
  
Daiki buys overpriced fast food, ten burgers and ten chicken sandwiches from Shake Shack when the season’s over, and several shakes of all different flavors (peanut butter and chocolate and the flavor of the month, some toffee thing with extra whipped cream); Atsushi comes back with several cartons of takeout Chinese (though he’s already eaten one of the fortune cookies). Taiga digs into both at once, burger in one hand and shitty disposable chopsticks in the other; when he kisses them both he tastes like sesame oil and cherry peppers. Daiki looks over his head at Atsushi; Atsushi shrugs. They’ll call it a draw for now.


	128. nijihaihimu, don't look back

“Don't look back, you're not going that way.”   
  
That’s the slogan on the t-shirt Shougo throws at Tatsuya; he doesn’t bother to duck and it lands over his shoulder.  
  
“I bought that for you at the street fair. It’s a good reminder.”  
  
“You could have bought me some one dollar lemonade,” says Tatsuya.  
  
He knows he can be a bit preoccupied with the past, that he’s always afraid it’s going to catch up to him, that karma’s going to win in the end, or that there’s no way he could have gone from his game being that inadequate to being in the NBA (a voice that sounds like Shuu’s says it was never all that inadequate, that he’d always been able to trash Shuuzou—but sometimes when it had mattered, Tatsuya’s game hadn’t been enough, though maybe it was all Taiga, and that knot of feelings like hair caught in the drain had strangled and stoppered up everything in those games, as well as Taiga being simply better). And maybe it’s more obvious; maybe it’s just Shougo trying to get under his skin, draw blood like a needle. The shirt’s still in his hands; he’s still frowning at it.  
  
“You okay?” says Shuu, kissing his cheek. “More coffee?”  
  
“I’m okay,” says Tatsuya. “No thanks.”  
  
“It’s not bad advice,” Shuu says. “I’m just saying.”  
  
“I know,” says Tatsuya, trying to smile.   
  
“Look, you don’t have to worry about your past coming back to haunt you as much as we do, okay?”  
  
(They’ve been through this before; they’re going through it again because Tatsuya won’t let it stick, still, after so long.)  
  
“I know,” Tatsuya says, reaching for Shuu’s hand and squeezing it (though he’d give up any of his own shots for the two of them; they’d fucked up but they’ve long since made their peace with it and there's nothing to gain by dredging it all back up).   
  
“Tell the past it can kiss your ass,” says Shougo, reappearing from the bedroom and draping his arm around Tatsuya’s shoulders like a particularly heavy scarf. “That’s what I did.”  
  
Shuu pinches Shougo's cheek; Shougo tries to kick Shuu’s ankle but hits Tatsuya; Tatsuya tries to give a mild look of disapproval but ends up laughing.  
  
“Believe it; you’re better than that shit,” says Shougo.   
  
He hugs Shuu close, too, so that they’re both under his arms, shaded from the harshness of a nonexistent sun.


	129. muramido, shifting attention

Murasakibara hadn’t planned on his attention shifting so much towards Midorima. He’d been a familiar face, almost a friend, when Murasakibara had been traded here; he’d helped him get settled and passed him the ball and played to win every night; he’d spoken Japanese with Murasakibara when Murasakibara would get homesick or when they were on long flights and Murasakibara had too much time to think about what would happen if he forgot, irrational, but Midorima had always been surprisingly patient (perhaps because he’d had similar thoughts, though he’s never said and Murasakibara’s never asked).   
  
If Murasakibara’s being honest (and there’s nothing to gain here by lying), he hadn’t even considered that much. The shift in his attentions is almost unconscious; he notices it happening but doesn’t understand how; it’s probably been shifting over so long already that he can’t stop it. Midorima’s wingspan, those long arms so graceful as he releases the ball (basketball is harsh, not beautiful; Midorima, ornery as he always is, seems to defy that with every move); Midorima’s eyelashes, long and when he takes off his glasses to sleep on a plane they look even longer, speaking of things that defy physics; Midorima’s legs, Midorima's ass, Midorima’s hair when it gets long enough to just slightly curl up again (and then he cuts it); the way Midorima pouts and he doesn’t even realize it. Fuck, he’s cute; he’s beautiful; he’s got a hold of Murasakibara and he doesn’t even realize that, either.   
  
He always asks to sit together tentatively; Murasakibara always flops down next to him, leans on his shoulder. Sometimes Midorima smiles when he does, as if he doesn’t care about Murasakibara noticing. As if maybe he’s hoping Murasakibara would notice, but how does he not know how much Murasakibara’s already noticing?  
  
The first time Murasakibara kisses him is in a hotel hallway, outside the ice machine. The bucket’s fll of ice and Midorima almost drops it on Murasakibara’s foot (the one that needs icing). The door’s closed; they’ll hear anyone approaching; Murasakibara doesn’t care. He kisses Midorima again.  
  
Sex with Murasakibara’s foot like this isn’t ideal, but they can go part of the way; they can take time to look a little closer at each other’s bodies, the things they haven’t seen from stolen glances in locker rooms, the way this skin feels on that skin, Midorima’s muscles contracting under Murasakibara’s touch. There’s so much more here, so much more even to notice; Murasakibara falls asleep with a foot less swollen and Midorima shirtless in the bed next to him.


	130. kagahimu, two roads

Two roads, equally terrifying, had appeared to Taiga always when they had been separated. What if he never saw Tatsuya again? What if he did? Both possibilities were daunting; both of them had made him feel a little bit sick, as if he should start downing glasses of water and antacids to rid himself of the pain. But why do that when it’s psychological, rooted in his mind and something outside of that?  
  
Why had he been worried about that at all? He can’t dismiss either as irrational, the surprise of learning how Tatsuya had felt hitting him worse than that punch, the idea that there had been more, that Tatsuya had hated him, that as much as he had missed Tatsuya, as fiercely, Tatsuya had thought him despicable, never wanted to see his face again. It seems a little bit stupid on the surface, though, when Tatsuya’s in his arms half-asleep, solid and real and heavy (but not so heavy Taiga wants to let him go, maybe ever). Those feelings are still here, lingering below the surface, Tatsuya's resentment never fully torn away, his own trepidation showing itself when Taiga least wants it to.  
  
It’s less and less the more they’re together, the more they ease into this, being with each other, being freer with their emotions. Taiga wants to shout always, to everyone, how much he loves Tatsuya, how wonderful Tatsuya is; he wants to tell Tatsuya every second but it still might scare him off, might make him believe it even less. He wants to play basketball for hours, maybe not as much as Tatsuya does; it’s the reason they’re both so tired right now but Tatsuya gets worn down a little bit quicker; he’s more stubborn about not showing it, too, and Taiga has to beg him off.   
  
Sometimes Taiga dreams he’s faced with the same path, horrible options, neither of which will be chosen; sometimes he wakes up in a cold sweat and he calls his dream self a fool. The thought of never seeing Tatsuya again crushes his chest like an i-beam falling down and hitting it; the thought of seeing Tatsuya makes him breathe a little easier, and he rolls over and Tatsuya’s there, asleep, breath making the pillow flutter. Taiga watches him, just for a little, Tatsuya, his Tatsuya, back here with him, the world set right on its axis. He falls asleep, buzzing with contentment, his feet brushing Tatsuya’s ankles as if to share that feeling with him.


	131. aocest, court of dreams

Aomine builds the court in his dreams first. He shows up every night, laying down some more asphalt, dreaming up columns for the hoops. In the end, it’s his dream though; he can make them float in midair if he wants to, like the hoops in a gym only no ceiling to descend from, nothing pulling them up or down. They float, pinpoint placement; even when the wind picks up they don’t budge. There’s a chain link fence next, barbed wire at the top; he places several rows, several copycat courts over beyond it. It takes a few tries to get people to populate them, but they don’t need to do that much. They’re just there for atmosphere.  
  
It makes those days on the school roof pass by quicker, floating off to his dreams and perfecting the little details, the bottom of the fence and the lines on the court, painted on the asphalt. It doesn’t smell like the park, so Aomine adds that, car exhaust and grass clippings and old cigarettes, fresh bread from the bakery on the other side of the street. What’s he going to do when it’s all complete? That’s a question he hasn’t arrived at, really; it’ll come once everything is ready.  
  
The basketball is the last thing before him, round and full and just broken in; Aomine dribbles between his legs a few times, experimenting. Nice. High school games don’t feel this good; he takes a few shots, lays in a few dunks, turns around. He’s not sweating at all yet, but there on the other side of the court is another him.   
  
He greets Aomine with a kiss and a smack on the ass; the ball wrenches itself up out of Aomine’s hands. A tipoff.  
  
“You ready?”  
  
“Bring it.”  
  
Aomine wins it; away they go. They thunder down the court, fast one way and faster the other, quick pivots into shots and blocks and attempts, trying to outwit and outplay and outmuscle each other (themselves?) until Aomine forgets the score, forgets the surroundings, forgets all of it except basketball, pure and clear. It makes his heart ache, tugging on him; he doesn’t love basketball the tender way he once thought he had, but this reminds him too much of that. He stops, panting, leaning against the links of the fence he’d built.  
  
“Hey,” says the other him. “You okay?  
  
Aomine looks at him; his own eyes look straight back. Aomine’s the one who initiates the kiss this time, kisses his other self until he’s so breathless he can’t think about basketball anymore.


	132. rakuzan 5, monsters

They are the monsters even if they don’t quite look it. They’re stronger than most; Nebuya especially is larger than most, but he’s the only one among them that would maybe get pegged for being a monster on the court. Akashi’s small; no one notices Mayuzumi; Hayama;s erratic; Mibuchi plays delicate. They’re not gigantic, titanic the way Yosen’s players are. The same confrontation isn’t in their eyes the way it’s in Seirin's and Kirisaki Daiichi’s, the same chip isn’t so openly on their shoulder. They will fight but they don’t need to come out biting their opponent’s heels; they’re smarter than that.  
  
Opponents look at them, though, and size them up. They’re too small; they’re not so menacing after all; this is it? This is Rakuzan, the mighty Emperor of Creation? Akashi’s fine with being underestimated, mistaken for lucky instead of good. They’ll know soon enough that’s not the case, and when they get overconfident it only makes Akashi’s job a little easier (he’s fond of challenges, but he’s always going to win, anyway; he’d rather not tire himself out all the time doing it).   
  
They always know better, the five of them; of course they do. They know each other on the court as they do off the court, sharp tic-tac-toe passes and knowing without looking where the others are going to be coming from the same place as kisses and touchse, as pulling each other back into bed in the morning (the five of them at once, perhaps not, but someone’s always ending up somewhere, Nebuya in Mibuchi’s bed or Hayama in Mayuzumi’s bed or Mibuchi in Akashi’s bed, stumbling to get up in the morning wrapped in familiar arms.  
  
And on the court they’ll show no mercy; if one of them’s doing badly he’ll be benched; Akashi makes threats that are not idle or empty at all; the five of them go out there, four five six seven eight, numbers in a row and names in a row, ready to win, ready to take their rightful place. This is no sacrificial hail mary; this is a fight but one in which they come from the top, keeping their position (because everyone always says that’s harder than getting there, and when you’ve got nothing you’ve got nothing to lose—true, in fact, and why those lower are always serious threats). But they’ve got each other, so they’ve got this.


	133. setohana, knowledge is power

Knowledge is power; that’s the way the saying goes. Power can be intoxicating, though, humming sweet with poisoned honey, poured into your veins; it’ll kill you before you know you’ve been hit at all. But if you’re smart enough, you can avoid that; it looks like a paradox but there are other ways of getting power, the way of the crude and stupid, the way to easy corruption and falling on your face with no aid from anyone else. Hanamiya enjoys watching that, even though he doesn’t have a hand. It’s too easy, too cheap, but a pleasure nonetheless.  
  
But knowledge is power, and power is good if you’re well-equipped to use it. Hanamiya would assume he and Seto are, even though Seto acts like a lazy piece of shit sometimes, drinks all of Hanamiya’s coffee and then falls asleep on him, arms around Hanamiya’s waist (and when he wakes up, the stale taste of coffee on his mouth is disgusting, but Seto never seems to care that much).   
  
Seto doesn’t even know basketball that much, but his insights are useful; he plays his position exactly right, keeps up with Hanamiya because that’s really all that’s necessary (that, and tripping up the opposing team completely by accident, of course, but you don’t need much in the way of basketball skill for that). But the more he knows, the more useful he becomes, the more Hanamiya can unleash him. A center in the spiderweb is good; a center in the spiderweb tripping up the flies is better; a center in the spiderweb who can trip up the flies, grab a rebound, and throw in a dunk is a weapon that would be unique to Hanamiya’s arsenal. After all, people fear him when they see him tripping someone, but they cower when they see him shoot a three right afterwards and get nothing but net.  
  
Hanamiya keeps pushing Seto off when Seto tries to fall asleep on him; it keeps not working (well, it works for the moment; Seto slumps back onto the bleachers and falls back to sleep but the next time he goes right back to Hanamiya’s shoulders as if his way too perfect memory has suddenly failed him with respect to this one highly important—much more important than the dates of some war—detail). Maybe he’ll never know better, but he already knows better on so much. Hanamiya’s not going to cut him any slack here, though; he doesn’t deserve it.


	134. gom, getting old

Kuroko is the first to leave the NBA, but not the first to retire. His contract is up; the Spurs have no use for him and no one wants to pay him the veterans’ minimum for his years of service. So he leaves for Japan, welcomed as a hometown hero in Tokyo.  
  
Kise is the first to retire; he was supposed to burn the brightest of them all and he did. But the brightest stars are the shortest-lived; his weak ankles and elbows and knees did him in. One surgery followed another and another, until he’s barely held together with medical tape, pain numbing his mind. The Warriors buy him out, and he retires, letting his endorsement deals carry him over.  
  
Akashi plays for five NBA teams; he stays with each for a season or two. It’s not notable for him, but it’s notable for being a longer NBA career than most, despite difficulties in the locker room which some call his entitlement issues and others call his coldness. He has a company to return to, a father who’s always been neutral at best to his son’s basketball aspirations, and several Olympic medals (he could never win in the NBA but he could always do alright on the international circuit).  
  
Murasakibara retires for a year but comes back again, his mind not totally made up. It’s only one last year, but in the end he says (in different words) that he’d realized why he’d retired in the first place.  
  
Midorima retires the same year as Murasakibara, the second time; they’d been playing on the same team. Traveling is a grind; traveling alone is a grind; he doesn’t command much money even as a lifetime Celtics member. There have always been other things for him; there will continue to be other things for him.  
  
Aomine holds on until they pull his fingers off with pliers and they bleed into the net he’s hanging from, until they collapse the net and he’s lying on the floor. He’ll sign anywhere, for minimum money; he just wants to play as long as he can. Basketball is a young man’s game, though; age has worn down every bit of him; jumping has wrecked his knees (and, almost paradoxically, his jump itself).   
  
Kuroko’s still playing in Japan when Aomine retires. He sends his regards and signs his new one year contract with the same team he’s been playing with since he’d left Texas.


	135. momoriko, infuriating

Momoi is infuriating. It’s not just that she’s good at what she does; it’s that she’s really good and she knows it. It might be worse if she acted like she didn’t. Scratch that, it would definitely be worse; fake humility tastes like garbage when she breathes it in, screeches in her ear. This is better than that, almost definitely. It’s good to have someone to compete against, but not someone like this who seems like she always wins even when she loses. How does she do that? How does she always get what she want, and what is she looking for?  
  
Maybe it’s that a tiny part of Riko wishes that Momoi was looking for someone like her, but when it comes to that stuff, well. Momoi’s looking for someone like Kuroko, and that’s even more infuriating. Kuroko’s a good basketball player, a polite kid who does most of his homework. There isn’t anything in particular that Riko finds wrong with him, but compared to her? This isn’t conceit; she knows she’s better. She’s smarter, more talented, better looking. Love is blind, and that explains a whole lot (and then there’s the what if Riko doesn’t like girls, but she could still pick a better boy). Why, of all people, Kuroko? Is it that he doesn’t seem to like her back, playing hard to get or actually uninterested?   
  
Momoi can see everything; that’s what she claims; she writes it all down in her notes, comparing and contrasting and managing on the fly. But if she can see everything, why can’t she see Riko? why doesn’t she like Riko?  
  
“Why Kuroko and not me?” Riko says, and it comes out just as bitter as she means it from deep within.  
  
“Oh?” says Momoi, her eyes sparking, and she’s going to fucking make Riko say it.  
  
“Why do you like him?”  
  
Momoi hums, a grin spreading across her face. “I like Tetsu-kun well enough, but don’t think I don’t have my eye on you, too, Riko-san. I was just waiting.”  
  
Riko glares at her; if this is a prank it’s a fucking awful one.  
  
Momoi sighs, placing her pen behind her ear. “Fine then.”  
  
She leans forward and places her mouth on Riko’s; her tongue is in Riko’s mouth and Riko’s waging a fight right back, her tongue in Momoi’s mouth, scraping Momoi’s teeth. It’s well worth the long wait, but did Momoi have to wait for her so long when she’d been ready the whole time? Damn it; once again she feels like she’s lost, though this is a hell of a way to lose.


	136. aokaga, la lights

The first time Daiki can get out to visit Taiga is Golden Week. It feels like it’s been for fucking ever that their relationship’s been made out of skype calls and LINE messages and emails, Daiki thinking of Taiga when he passes Maji Burger or sees some kid eating an entire sandwich in one mouthful or sees a particular arrangement of red and white and black. He’s pretty fucking pathetic about Taiga, all this length and distance later, but Taiga’s pathetic about him, too.  
  
They’ve talked late on Taiga’s night when he’s in a hotel room on a prep school trip, his school blazer draped over the chair behind him, whispering as to not wake up his roommate, some American kid named Kevin who’s apparently a guard and Daiki’s already jealous of this guy he’s barely seen because he gets to play with Taiga and room with Taiga and he knows there’s nothing even going on, they might not be good friends, but still. He wants to be there; screw being in a place where he knows the language and has friends; Taiga’s all he needs (okay, that’s pretty shortsighted, but that’s how he feels sometimes, when the school days drag on and it’s not the way it used to be where he’s got a date with Taiga to look forward to, or even calling him on the phone and knowing he’s in the same city).   
  
The flight sucks; it drags on worse than a day at school; Daiki forgets all of that once he’s over. He’s scanning the terminal for a familiar face, and then there he is; holy shit he’s gotten taller and he might be taller than Daiki—he definitely is, as he throws his arms around Daiki, smelling like the same soap and vaguely of fast-food grease; he doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t need to. It’s like all of the tightness in Daiki’s chest, the worry that everything would be ten tons of awkward, has gone away.  
  
Taiga drives him back; he makes a fuss about spilling the fast food they buy (it’s fucking delicious, but Daiki’s starved) and drives the long way back, supposedly to avoid traffic (though, really, there’s a lot). Aside from the bigger highways, LA isn’t that much different than Tokyo. More sprawl, bigger houses, maybe, but not much else, Daiki thinks. It’s a little bit comforting, to be where Taiga is, to know the similar sights he’s seeing.  
  
At night, though, it looks different; the lights are sharp and bright and glow white and yellow, not the multi-neon of downtown Tokyo. There’s no sound of trains to lull Daiki to sleep, only cars and people yelling, but he’s falling asleep next to Taiga, and that’s enough like home to get him there.


	137. rikocest

By the time Riko is twenty-five she has seen herself do many things. To be entirely accurate, she has seen other selves, other possibilities, divergent versions of herself, do many things that she, the Riko in this world, has not. She has seen a version of herself become the leader of an idol group, prancing around on stage, muscles used for dancing instead of running. There is a Riko who is training to be an astronaut, a Riko who had survived a nuclear disaster, a Riko who had gone to Todai, a Riko who had become a professional basketball player on the national team.  
  
Riko has yet to see a version of herself fuck another version of herself, but there’s a first time for everything (like the time she’d kissed the astronaut self, when it had been just the two of them in the same room between dimensions and something had filled her torso, something she hadn’t known she was missing). It’s the astronaut self who’s making eyes at the nuclear survivor; Riko wonders if the astronaut’s kissed her yet. who else she’s kissed. How can you be jealous of yourself? That’s a sensation Riko’s long since grappled with; she wants to be all they are and she feels like the most ordinary, least interesting of the bunch.  
  
But here they are, Riko and the astronaut and the nuclear survivor and the idol.   
  
The idol raises a plucked eyebrow. “Are you two going to do it, and can I watch?”  
  
“Bold,” says the astronaut.  
  
The nuclear survivor coughs, a blush flowering over her face; it’s a bit disconcerting to see all of these expressions at once (Riko hopes she looks better than that and doesn’t blush as easily).   
  
The idol looks at Riko; Riko shrugs. She hadn’t come here to do that, but how often do you have the opportunity to see this? Astronaut Riko grabs Nuclear Survivor Riko, but it’s the nuclear survivor who initiates the kiss, long and deep. The idol sighs next to Riko, loosening the belt of her skirt.  
  
“I’ll do you if you do me.”  
  
What—oh. Riko can definitely feel her own cheeks burning now. She nods, quickly, fiddling with the button on her own jeans. Idol Riko grins, reaches over, and undoes her fly.   
  
“No time like the present, huh?”  
  
It’s a line from one of her hit songs, one that hasn’t been written in Riko’s world. Riko rolls her eyes.  
  
“Easy there, Tiger.”


	138. nijihimu, your smile

There’s a picture on the end table in Alex’s apartment, right by the side of the couch that looks like it’s been clawed out by a cat. Shuuzou hadn’t noticed it the first few times, more than just the frame, but once he looks closer he can’t stop. Tatsuya’s in it; he looks like he’s ten or elven and he’s grinning, a wider smile than Shuuzou’s ever seen on him in person, pure and wonderful; even in a faded photograph from that long ago it does something to him (boy, does he have it bad). Alex is there, too, a matching grin on her face; she looks younger, too (though Shuuzou would never tell her). And there’s another person, too, a boy who looks roughly the same age as Tatsuya, dark red hair and brilliant smile. Around his neck is a copy of the ring that’s around Tatsuya’s, the ring he won’t let Shuuzou touch.  
  
All of a sudden Shuuzou feels like he’s violated something, like he wasn’t supposed to see that, but that he wants to know more, too. That boy is at least a piece of the puzzle to Tatsuya’s necklace, to the way Tatsuya is, closed off and cagey and miserable, the reason Tatsuya hates himself. Something had happened; Shuuzou thinks for a second that he might be dead, but—that’s bigger. This is something a little bit different, something Tatsuya won’t let go of, that he’s afraid to let go of in a way that’s almost familiar to Shuuzou. He thinks about asking Tatsuya, about asking Alex (she knows him, too, or knew him) but that’s cheating. Tatsuya doesn’t want to talk about it, and going behind his back will do no one any favors. Whatever had come to pass between Tatsuya and that boy, from when that picture had been taken and now, has run deep crevasses into him (and Shuuzou’s got no idea what had happened, but part of him wants to hate that boy, blame him for everything, for Tatsuya’s misery, even if it’s mostly self-inflicted).   
  
Shuuzou can’t do much with this knowledge that he shouldn’t have; he can hold Tatsuya tighter, cradle him close, whisper what Tatsuya will let him and try not to let him leave that night, kiss him tenderly though it always makes him look so sad. Maybe it’s futile, but Shuuzou hopes he’ll open his eyes and see Tatsuya smiling like the photograph, someday soon.


	139. nijihimu, the road outside my house

There’s some proverb in English about the road to hell and good intentions, but Shuuzou forgets the phrasing exactly; it’s probably made of words he still hasn’t memorized yet (English vocabulary is tough and weird and slippery; spelling is even worse, though maybe Shuuzou’s got no room to talk what with kanji; at least that’s what Tatsuya says even though his Kanji’s not too bad for someone whose Japanese education ended midway through elementary school). But Tatsuya, there’s the problem, or all of the problems really.  
  
Not that Tatsuya himself is a problem; he’s just got a billion, clogging his throat and pulling him down, making him push Shuuzou away, giving him grief and misery and a million other things to deal with on top of everything he’s got already. But that’s no excuse for Shuuzou not to have tried harder, not to have gotten anywhere with Tatsuya, not to have helped him solve or at least shed some of these problems. A lot of it’s stuff Tatsuya’s doing to himself, but there’s a root somewhere, a thorn grown over, a closed wound that’s now become infected, rancid, rotting him from the inside out. And despite these problems, the frustration, how fucking difficult Tatsuya can be (or, well, is nearly all of the time)—well, anyone’s worth helping, but Tatsuya’s still so kind, so wonderful; he just can’t see it through all of the things he’s got piled on top. Or doesn’t want to see it, for reasons that also probably trace back to the same set of problems.  
  
He won’t let Shuuzou know what they are; that much is on Tatsuya, though Shuuzou understands old shames. He’s told Tatsuya some of what he’d done as a budding delinquent but not all of it, the fights but not the petty theft and actual larceny, the motorbike he’d stolen and ridden off down the alley, down the street with no helmet, ditched when he’d run it all out of gas, face in the wind. Maybe Tatsuya’s done worse; maybe he’s done stuff that sticks with him more. But all of that doesn’t matter, because Shuuzou had tried, but not hard enough, to get through to Tatsuya. He’d tried and failed and now Tatsuya’s going off to Akita to do who knows what (maybe to confront his problems, face his demons and get burned alive, oh god). And he’s nearly the same as when Shuuzou had met him, a little more sexually experienced maybe, but he’s leaving Shuuzou behind, going where Shuuzou can’t follow. Shuuzou’s done nothing.  
  
Oh, right. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Shuuzou would like to think his intentions were the best, but now he’s alone and Tatsuya’s leaving and he hadn’t helped and. He’s not going to dwell; that’s Tatsuya’s thing. But that’s not going to stop him from feeling like shit.


	140. kagahimu, winning

Tatsuya looks in the mirror and wants to forget, hurls accusations at his reflection that he knows won’t pierce the glass. He knows every little thing the guy on the other side has thought, every little thing he’s done. There’s no way he’s forgetting when it sticks out in his mind so clearly, that hurt look in Taiga’s eyes repeated forever, like mirrors on every side stretching into infinity only he doesn’t get dizzy; it’s in complete high definition. Your fault, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud.  
  
He thinks about Taiga in the next room, Taiga whose eyes are soft and not confused, whose face shines with happiness. If he thinks too much about this, if he hates himself too much, he’s just going to make this relationship toxic; he’s just going to fuck things up with Taiga all over again, and now that he’s lost him he can’t. He can’t go back to where it was, the helplessness, being mired in misery (the swamp water at his feet, ankles, knees, hips), alone with himself and the boy on the other side of the mirror who looks like he doesn’t give a shit (even when Tatsuya can see the cracks, he still can’t stand it).   
  
He thinks about asking Taiga if he just wanted to forget it and Taiga shaking his head, saying that it had hurt and he doesn’t want to relive it, but that it had taught him things about Tatsuya. He doesn’t say that it had taught him Tatsuya was a rotten brother, a selfish person; that’s not even what he’s thinking and it hurts more that those insults aren’t there, that Tatsuya has to work twice as hard to hate himself because Taiga won’t hate him even a little bit.   
  
(“But you do?” Taiga had said, and Tatsuya had nodded.  
  
Taiga had told him to keep voicing his insecurities, to make this open, that he wants Tatsuya to be comfortable—as if any of this could ever make Tatsuya less than ill at ease. He says he’d rather not think about it when there’s so much to think about that’s good right now, and Tatsuya doesn’t ask what if it all falls apart because we were caught up in everything being so good.)   
  
His reflection smirks at him, says it’s all going to shit again in his eyes, and Tatsuya glares back. Like hell it will. Like hell he’s letting that part of him win again.


	141. aohimu, kiss you

They’re in the same conference; they get to play each other four times year. Even if it were six it would be too few, but if they were in the same division they might be able to visit each other on homestands, a three hour drive instead of incalculable (well, not really, but it feels that way sitting in Cleveland trying to get to New York without flying), public transportation, even. But that’s not how the cards had played out. Daiki’s not going to leave the Cavs anytime soon, and Tatsuya’s not going to leave the Knicks, and unless there’s some kind of crazy realignment and scheduling change they’re not going to get to even play each other more.  
  
It’s better than it could be but it still feels like not enough, all the times he wants to see Tatsuya, to hold him after a tough loss or when he’s held out for a nagging injuries (or to be held when it happens to him), to tell him how fucking good his jump shot is and how hard he’d played (he knows it, but it’s worth saying over and over again), to play against him, to spend time together the way people would if they were dating each other in the same city.  
  
“We have all offseason,” Tatsuya murmurs into the kiss, and maybe Daiki’s being a little obviously needy here, showing his frustration, but he just wants more.   
  
Tatsuya dangles the offseason like a reminder of things that are good, slivers of time that are better than what most people get (days when it’s just them, days when they should be training but Tatsuya lets Daiki pull him back into bed, when they’re high enough above the hot garbage on the street below and the air conditioner is humming in the window). But they aren’t most people; it doesn’t do shit to compare their relationship to anything but itself.  
  
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Daiki says, sliding his hands down Tatsuya’s arms (he winces when Daiki hits a bruise and Daiki lifts it up to kiss, as if to childishly think he’d be able to take away the pain) to hold his hands.  
  
Tatsuya smiles, and Daiki’s torn between wanting to kiss him again and just wanting to look at how pretty and perfect it is on Tatsuya’s face; he wants to say something but he’s dumbstruck just like the first time he’d seen Tatsuya really smile. So Tatsuya makes the choice for him, and stands on his tiptoes to kiss Daiki on the mouth.


	142. aokuromomo, like a bruise

Their love is tender, soft. It’s not the way one would look at Tetsu and Satsuki and make assumptions, baby pink and baby blue, unyielding. Rather, it’s tender like abruise; if you poke at it it will yell and hurt, with all the various things they’ve done to each other (all the things they’ve said that don’t deserve to be listed now, that are fading but they still feel, a sharp sting). It’s muddied with all the colors of them, all of the space they take up (all of them larger than their forms; Tetsu and Satsuki are so small and yet Daikis bedroom seems too small for all three of them at once sometimes; they can’t be contained).  
  
And maybe it’s like a bruise more now that their time is waining, fading into a washed-out green instead of a bright red or purple, shining against their skins; it’s like the moon setting rapidly beyond the horizon. The past still has yet to fade; their time together still has yet to fade completely. But they’re headed toward a horizon, a sudden drop, the way the ancients did (or maybe didn’t; Daiki had slept through those parts of history) think that you could sail to the edge of the world and fall off the flat plane of it.  
  
This isn’t an ending, not right now; they’re all way too damn stubborn not to hold on and dig in their fingernails no matter where they end up, but no matter what they do (college, basketball, college and basketball) it’s going to take up so much more of their time than the other things in their lives do right now. They might live apart; one day they’re going to; one day they’ll probably be in different country. Distance, time pinched by those allocating it (forces they submit to reluctantly if this is what that means, losing the three of them even partially), a moon that turns to new, a bruise that fades completely but when you press the area you still feel pain, and you still think in certain lights you can see it because you’re so used to the fact that it’s there.  
  
If Daiki said this out loud, Tetsu would pretend not to get it; Satsuki would say something soft and tender like “oh, Dai-chan” and kiss the side of his face, hold him even though he’s twice her size because that’s what all of this is going after, and they’ll pull Tetsu in, too. All of this is about being, holding, touching, with each other, of each other. For now, for later.


	143. nijihai, staten island ferry

Shuuzou takes a picture of them on the ferry to Staten Island, on the way to a minor league baseball game; Shuuzou’s face is somewhat sunburned and Shougo’s mouth is a blur, in the middle of a rant on how isn’t this part of the city a dump (Shuuzou’s touched he’d actually read the tourist guidebook, or at least looked it up on the internet, even though Shougo will never admit it). His arm is around Shougo’s shoulders; it’s casual enough to tweet but he saves it for himself, in a small but growing folder of Shougo pictures. (They take another picture on the way back, free adjustable caps backwards on their heads, Shuuzou a bit more sunburned.)  
  
They take a real vacation, one that’s not to a place either of them has ever lived, the Canadian Rockies; Shuuzou learns to hate mountain climbing and rough terrain; he almost sprains his ankle and wonders if this stuff is forbidden by his NBA contract (probably). Shougo translates the snippy Quebecois climbers ahead of them (so maybe he does know enough French), their own complaints about the mountains, until Shuuzou tells him to stop because it’s only making him want to start talking to them and agree. They make it up pretty far one mountain and Shuuzou takes a picture, the other mountains behind them and the open sky, the clouds stretching up and away into space.   
  
“Why, though?” says Shougo.   
  
“To commemorate."  
  
“I’m not going to fucking forget; are you?”  
  
“No,” says Shuuzou. “But it’s nice to look at sometimes. C’mere, let’s get another one.”  
  
And Shougo sighs but dutifully shuffles closer (and does not pretend like he’s going to shove Shuuzou off the mountain).  
  
Shuuzou kisses Shougo when he gets in, fresh off another shitty flight (the road trip’s almost over but he feels like he’s already home here, a day before the actual game, too) and holds up his phone, takes a selfie without looking. It’s blurry; Shougo’s about to raise his hand and flip the bird to the camera but he hasn’t gotten there.   
  
“Don’t tell me you’re commemorating the slog of this season,” says Shougo.  
  
“I’m commemorating you,” says Shuuzou.   
  
“Let me make you put that phone down,” says Shougo.  
  
He can be awfully convincing when he wants to, hands on hands so there’s no room to hold the phone, kisses that would make Shuuzou drop it if he could hold it at all, an awfully good blow job that—well, the picture in his mind of Shougo’s mouth that full is probably good enough to think about when he's alone.


	144. aoaka, royal au

As prince of the realm, Akashi is well-trained in the arts of charm, of dueling, of riding a horse. He is also well-trained in choosing a champion, an ace from the deck, a trump card; other kingdoms have their own and Akashi has Aomine, the best of the knights he’d learned to fight with, had wrestled with until they had submitted to him. Aomine was always wild, strong, skilled; strong fighters like Murasakibara and Midorima had trained for hours, the stubborn urge to win or be their best overtaking everything. Aomine just loves to fight; while others hone their fine motor skills his are already perfect, the sweep of the sword as natural as he was born with a title, the same as Akashi. Perhaps that’s why they get along so well, assuming one’s birthright, defending one’s title; Aomine, the champion of that first year of training and strategy, still the champion now.   
  
“Race me," says Aomine, pulling up to Akashi on horseback (sometimes it’s joust me or fuck me or best me with the sword; this is what Akashi loves best, the two of them against the wind, pushing himself and pushing his white horse).   
  
Akashi has been sitting sidesaddle, debating where to go today, but this settles him. “Edge of the pond and back?”  
  
“You’re on” says Aomine.  
  
There’s never a starting gun with them; all’s fair in love and war, Aomine’s shirt hanging open and building up his wind resistance; Akashi thinks his hair’s too long as they speed up, as he spurs on his steed. Akashi leans in; his lesser weight gives him the advantage here, but unlike some he does not think advantages are something to be smoothed over or apologized for. He knows Aomine’s the same.   
  
It’s the two of them, their horses, just as determined to compete as they are, bred pure for this, to serve kings and nobles, They turn at the stables; Akashi like a hairpin and Aomine more winding; he’s catching up by the time they speed back through; Aomine rides his horse through a mud puddle and Akashi leans down tighter to push ahead and avoid getting splashed. When he dismounts after his narrow victory, he discovers that only a few droplets of mud have dried on the back of his horse’s legs. The stable boy can take care of this.  
  
“You win,” says Aomine.  
  
His boots and breeches are all covered in mud; he looks more like a peasant than a champion, but the sweat is glowing on his skin and he’s grinning as if to make him glow brighter.   
  
“Give me a kiss,” says Akashi.  
  
“As you wish, Majesty,” says Aomine.  
  
The kiss is hard and bruising and sweaty, just as Akashi expects, just as he likes.


	145. momoriko, magic au

“Magic isn’t contagious,” says Riko, swirling the rock of sugar into her cappuccino. “That’s bullshit.”  
  
Is it, though? Satsuki hesitates; she’s not going to say anything. Maybe it’s her own mind playing tricks on her, the desire (long since beating inside of her like an unsettled rock tossed against her ribs) to have some magic on her own and not have to live vicariously through her friends expressing itself through living with Riko, being around her so often that she feels like she’s picked it up, the traces of Riko’s magic left tucked away everywhere.  
  
But Satsuki trusts herself; she trusts her own thoughts and her mind isn’t one to play this kind of trick. That much is certain; this is either an illusion of perception or something real, something she’d caught from Riko. A bug, a virus; maybe it’ll go away. (Maybe, she thinks, it’s like a virus that she’s always had, dormant until Riko had triggered it with a kiss, but that’s the kind of romantic drivel that sells copies in lowbrow trade paperbacks but gets panned by critics, completely unrealistic even as a passing thought.)  
  
“Why? Do you know someone who says they’ve caught it?”  
  
Riko’s eyes are sharp; her roes brushing Satsuki’s under the table.  
  
“It was just a thought,” says Satsuki, smiling (Riko doesn’t believe her for a second).  
  
“I mean, if magic’s popping up right now, then they might have been hiding it. Maybe they were ashamed of the form it took, or they didn’t like having it, or it wasn’t recognized. Maybe they took one of those quack potions or learned a few party tricks.”  
  
Satsuki snorts; this isn't that. She’d haven noticed if she could see people glowing with emotions before; she’s always been able to read them well, but now their fingers glow green, red, blue, purple, pink, black, like they’ve been implanted with Christmas lights.   
  
“Well," says Riko, and then sighs. “Some people say that magic is awakened by love. Some of them use it to shoehorn that soul mate crap into everything, but. If you fall in love, it relaxes your boundaries, changes you enough so that latent magic can show itself. I’ve never heard of it happening in real life, though.”  
  
Oh. Riko’s fingertips are glowing a bluish-green, calm and happiness and warmth, across the table. Satsuki smiles and touches them with hers, their own purple-pink, the little bit of excitement and wonder. All of this is so real.


	146. aokuro, tentacle monster au

Daiki wakes up to a squid in his bed, except the squid is Tetsu. He’s sprouted long tetntacles, writhing in the air; Daiki’s first thought is that this is an awful dream, and maybe he shouldn’t have eaten that leftover chicken of questionable expiration last night. But this is Tetsu’s face; the tentacles wrap around him and squeeze and no imagination could make this shit up. Tetsu’s gurgling nonsense; he finally releases Daiki (he can’t find words; he can’t make sounds; his body feels frozen) and slides off the bed, tentacles slithering and squelching out of the room. Daiki falls asleep again before he gets back.  
  
When he wakes up, Tetsu’s normal; there’s dried ink on the sheets and no other sign that anything had transpired. Maybe Tetsu had spilled a fountain pen (does he even have a fountain pen?) and that had made its way into Daiki’s dreams. Tetsu is still Tetsu; this had never happened.  
  
Some nights, though, he wakes up to feel Tetsu get up and go to the bathroom; there’s a fishy sort of smell in the air and he hears the sound of something sliding against the floor instead of footsteps. He waits for Tetsu to come back, afraid of what he’ll see, but Tetsu’s walking on too legs.  
  
“I’m sorry, Daiki-kun; I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.  
  
“It’s okay,” says Daiki, and he wonders if Tetsu can feel his heart running rapidly in his chest, beats erratic from his overactive imagination.  
  
And then one morning Daiki wakes up to find Tetsu has been replaced by an actual squid, wrapping its tentacles tight around Daiki’s arms; Daiki can’t feel his circulation at all and oh, God, this thing is going to cut off his arms. This is all a dream; this is all a dream.   
  
“This isn’t funny, Tetsu,” Daiki says.  
  
(Don’t squids need water? Is this a real squid and not Tetsu? Are real squids this brilliant of a color blue?)  
  
The squid speaks with Tetsu’s voice. “I’m fine, Daiki-kun.”  
  
The squid releases him, suddenly; Daiki rubs his arms and shivers. The squid looks at him, one tentacle reaching out to caress Daiki’s cheek, and Daiki can’t stop the look of horror from appearing on his face. It seems to shrug, if squids can, and then slithers off the bed, out of the bedroom, down the hall to the bathroom. Daiki feels like he’s going to be sick.


	147. aomomo, too soon?

“Too soon?” says Daiki.  
  
Satsuki’s panting, hands on her knees. How can he want to restart their basketball games? She doesn’t mind too much that he always wins; he’s so fun to watch and they always have so much fun racing up and down the court, putting the ball in the hoop or trying to stop each other from doing the same. It’s been like six seconds since Daiki’s scored ten; she’s only got four points herself and she’s tired.  
  
“A little bit,” she says. “Let’s get water; being hydrated is important.”  
  
(So she’s parroting some commercial; it still gets Daiki to agree.)  
  
*  
  
They don’t play with each other that much anymore; Daiki's got the Teikou team to play for and Satsuki’s got the Teikou team to look after, three strings’ worth of players, the analytical side of her ready to stretch out. But Daiki finishes is own extra practice and looks at Satsuki, writing on her clipboard,   
  
“Satsuki, one on one?”  
  
“Isn’t it too soon?”  
  
“Nah, I’m good!” he says.  
  
She’s not wearing sneakers; she’s still wearing her school uniform. She hasn't been playing much at all, but still, she wants, the ball in her hands, cool and right, as he checks it to her.   
  
*  
  
“Aomine-kun—”  
  
“Too soon,” he says, chugging about half a bottle of Pocari in one go. “I’m tired, Satsuki.”  
  
She knows he’s lying; her eyes narrow. So he won’t practice; so he’ll show up halfway through the game to hammer the nail into the opposing team’s coffin and shove it in the ground until it hits the earth’s core; so he pretends he doesn’t love basketball at all just because it had broken his heart. And now he won’t play with her.  
  
“You can go easy on me,” she says (she doesn’t say it’ll be a challenge if he’s tired; that’s laughable and they both know it). “Spot me five.”  
  
He shrugs. “What's the use? I’m going home. Walk with me?”  
  
Satsuki picks up the basketball that had been lying on the floor in front of her. She nods; it’s better than nothing.  
  
*  
  
Daiki comes over on Sunday morning; the sun’s shining bright through her blinds and Satsuki had been looking forward to sleeping in today. He’s got a basketball on his finger, like he’s ready to play in socks.   
  
“I just woke up,” she grumbles. “It’s too soon.”  
  
“I’ll wait,” he says, sitting on the edge of her bed and yawning before dropping to kiss her mouth.   
  
“There’s not room for both of us,” she says. “Sleep on the floor.”  
  
She wakes up to see him clutching the basketball close to his chest, legs dangling off of her bed.


	148. aomido, nba lockout

The lockout isn’t all bad. It sucks not to get paid in full the worth of his contract, and it sucks not to be able to play with the best competition, in the best league in the world. But it’s nice to go back home for more than a few weeks, and not in the summer when it’s hot and humid and sticky and gross. It’s nicer to go back home and not stay with his parents, who Daiki loves but he’s also kind of old to live at home full time when he’s so used to living away from home. It’s nice to rent an apartment with Midorima, but it’s nicer to play with him, to work together and come home every night sitting next to each other on the train, to make dinner together and fall asleep in the same bed and wake up to go to practice together.  
  
But none of that is quite as nice as taking the court together on a regular basis, for the first time since middle school really (all star games and international tournaments don’t count; that’s not a long enough time). Only now it’s the two of them and a bunch of unknowns and half-viable NBA players against similar collections of players; Aomine would say they’re evenly matched some of the time but not really. Not when it’s him and Midorima against whatever other stars.   
  
They fucking dominate. It’s not Midorima’s luck; it’s not the kisses Aomine steals in the back of the locker room, tucked away until Midorima pushes him off and pretends to be furious but he’s fucking glowing; it’s just the two of them, on the court, a pass from a teammate received and then passed one to the other, an alley-oop from Midorima, right to Aomine’s waiting arms so he can slam it in.  
  
(“I thought you didn’t like dunks,” says Aomine. “That threes are always better."  
  
“Sometimes it’s nice to mix it up,” Midorima says, adjusting his glasses, and Aomine thinks about asking when Midorima’s next dunk is going to be.)  
  
They’re unstoppable; they’re winning almost every game, sellout crowds, almost like they can forget that when the league and the union find some middle ground they’ll go back to better competition, cities with half a continent between them, living apart and seeing each other—how many times in a shortened season?  
  
“Come play for the Cavs,” says Aomine, when it’s late enough at night that they should be sleeping.  
  
“Come play for the Celtics,” says Midorima, tired smile in his voice.


	149. gatciraki, from which side

Some emotions are self-contained, directed inward or even when they’re not, coming from a source deep inside one’s self, an insecurity or a confidence or a feeling, a sense of something. Love, though, is always secondhand, like the motorcycles Masako buys for cheap, half-rusted but willing to show their true selves, revving up fast, shiny bodies ready to be ridden against the wind, with the right amount of care. That’s the way love grows, but it doesn’t come from within. It’s always got a source, something someone does or says or is, something about someone else. They are the catalyst; they are the cause of the feeling; they are the ones who make you feel that way.   
  
That's putting a little bit too much blame, perhaps, or responsibility if you’re looking on love in a kinder light (and it’s harder for Masako not to these days, harder now she’s got some of her own). But it’s filtered through sensation, perception, your own judgement of what a particular look or feeling means. Masako’s own comes from the way Alex turns her head to give something a closer look, the way she spreads her fingers against Masako’s skin like she’s about to palm a basketball, the fierce way she plays on the court, fearless even though she knows gravity’s weighing on her jump shot and her depth perception’s nowhere near what it used to be. It’s the way she could fight if she had to, the way she’s play-fought with Masako when Masako gets bored of stabbing the air with a wooden sword, circling each other with fists, pulling their punches but ending up with bruised shoulders before they put it all down (the ache is always worth it).   
  
But Masako’s love passes through Alex; she hands it over and Alex gives it back until they can’t tell which parts came from who, until they’re no longer entirely separate in that respect. And from the outside it seems terrifying, but when you’re the one who’s loving, it’s still pretty terrifying, but it’s not something Masako doesn’t want. She does want this, all of it; she does want to share this all with Alex the way they can’t really share clothes (different styles, different sizes) but the way they can share each other, not divided up with precision but sloppy, spilling one over the other like milk in coffee. As if that would ever be a bad thing.


	150. kagahimu, don't

Distance is always a factor. It’s been a factor since before they’d even thought about this kind of relationship seriously, all the way back when Taiga was still in middle school and Tatsuya was in high school and there was the distance he had crossed, taking himself away from Taiga; there was the distance Taiga had crossed, physically. They’re close now, emotionally; they’d been close already before Taiga had asked if Tatsuya would want this, even with all the difficulties. It’s not like navigating the NBA and their shitty schedules is as bad of a challenge as the things in Tatsuya’s mind; it’s not as if they’re not up for it.   
  
They spend their first summer together as they always do, back home in LA; Tatsuya says it’s neutral territory with a smirk in his voice and it’s not as if that’s really true; they’re both so attached, so rooted here, that no matter how many times they leave they always come back, to this, to each other (there’s an extended metaphor here, probably; Taiga’s not going to dig it out). They don’t have to promise to steal as much time as they can with each other during the season; they always do it anyway (who cares how slow they say they’re going with this; almost all of it was there already).  
  
They don’t promise, but it’s unspoken, and then Taiga breaks his arm right before the Bulls’ first road trip to the east coast. Unlucky, a bad foul, it doesn’t fucking matter; he can’t travel with the team to see Tatsuya; if he could they couldn’t play each other.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Taiga says on the phone; it feels like he’s let Tatsuya down all over again.  
  
“Don’t,” says Tatsuya. “You couldn’t help it.”  
  
(He sounds frustrated himself, not with Taiga but with everything, probably.)  
  
The Knicks are in Chicago before Taiga’s totally better of course; they have a game in Indiana two nights before, though, and Taiga’s feeling good enough to make the drive out. He probably shouldn’t go to the game, but he’s got a room reserved in the same hotel as the team, several floors below. He text Tatsuya just as he’s getting in, checking at the desk (and even in a basketball-mad place like this, none of the bored rich people seem to recognize him).   
  
Tatsuya’s loitering outside his door; Taiga’s not sure which of them smiles first but the door’s not shut before Taiga’s wrapped Tatsuya in his good arm and squeezed him close, felt the sweetness of the familiar shape of Tatsuya’s body against his.


	151. imahana, poem

I could hate you to death, strangle you in  
my web, the strands your actions, the things you do.  
If I were a spider (and I am) i could stick you with venom  
my fangs hitting your bones, they go so deep  
(goes my hatred)  
I don’t imagine this when I kiss and bite your skin,  
but afterwards, I superimpose the image like an editor  
But you are the editor of facts, of histories; you say things are   
a certain way.  
They aren’t, but you speak like this  
and this is why I hate you.  
  
I could hate you to death, cold as a glacier  
under the surface, two hundred years ago   
before humans like you started meddling  
with the things they shouldn’t.  
Am I your business? You have certainly acted as if I have made this so.  
I am my business, and no one else’s;  
you’re certainly arrogant, especially when you pretend  
to know what I’m thinking.  
(Is it that I would bite your lips off? I would like to,  
sometimes, just to shut you up; you would look so good with lipstick  
that color.   
Or any color at all, but you leave too many marks,  
another thing I hate you for, another notch, another strand  
of the web. You think you know me;  
you mock and call me bad boy  
as if I’m a cautionary tale.  
Why haven’t you learned your lesson?)  
  
I could hate you to death,  
but I won’t give you the pleasure, though you always  
always  
seem to take it from me, extracted with your shitty tweezers  
(not that it hurts me; it’s just annoying)  
when I don’t want to give it to you.  
Which is always.  
You don’t want to die, but you want me to kill you;  
you think it proves that you mean something deep to me  
like this is some kind of love story or something.  
(You took the wrong lessons from Shakespeare, too.)  
  
I could hate you to death, sometimes, but  
it’s a bit more interesting  
to keep you alive.


	152. nijihai, he got hot

Shougo got hot. It’s the type of dumb observation someone makes in those teen TV shows Shuuzou’s siblings watch, even though the actors always look the same, some kind of bland Hollywood kind of good-looking, maybe with a better tan or no glasses or fewer clothes but still not enough difference to really matter. But Shougo looks a hell of a lot different than he had the last time Shuuzou had really known him.  
  
It’s not that he looks different from the last time Shuuzou had seen him; their teams face off regularly and they’ve exchanged words on the court. Shougo’s hair is black now, not too terrible a dye job if you don’t know he’s been grey since he was a kid; the cornrows look ridiculous but Shougo looks good despite them, a grin that’s less pretending to be malicious and a little softer but still confident, still showing teeth. He’s got tattoos on his arm, popping out against his skin; they’ve never really been Shuuzou’s thing, but on him there’s something suitable about them, the sleeves of his dress shirt pushed up, the fabric transparent to see shadows and outlines beneath where it still covers. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his slacks; he looks comfortable, more than he ever had in a Teikou uniform (and Shuuzou’s going to try not to think about that too much right now). He raises his glass of what looks like water (maybe vodka?) toward Shuuzou; Shuuzou walks over.   
  
“Good seeing you,” says Shougo, gaze flicking over Shuuzou as if he’s trying to get something out of him.   
  
He’s taller than Shuuzou now, too, by a significant amount; he’s put on muscle weight and it suits him, fills out his dress clothes handsomely (Shuuzou tells himself to stop thinking too much about it; he’s going to give himself away if he hasn’t already; maybe that’s what Shougo had seen from across the room and that’s what he’s looking him up and down for).   
  
Shuuzou nods, realizing he hasn’t responded; he looks dumb or maybe angry for that. Shougo doesn’t seem to mind it, though, nail tapping the edge of his glass.  
  
“You know,” says Shougo. “The last time someone looked at me like the way you are, we fucked. So, if you’re up for it.”  
  
Shit. Shuuzou’s mouth goes dry; he swallows. “I’m up for it.”  
  
“Good,” says Shougo, leaning in to bump Shuuzou’s shoulder (and Shuuzou could say something about respecting one’s elders but it’s far, far too late for that, and besides, he’d rather actually go somewhere and undress Shougo with his hands instead of his eyes as soon as possible).


	153. aohimu, when will this end

From the first instant Tatsuya recognizes that Daiki’s got a thing for him, he wonders when it’s going to end. When Daiki’s going to see behind the pretty face, behind the way Taiga talks him up, to what lies beneath, and shrink back. When this crush will fall away and things will be awkward when Daiki knows he knows, but they’re not that close.  
  
He’s not expecting Daiki to ask him out; he’s long since decided that it’s not worth thinking about the people he can’t have; he knows it won’t last if they do. Maybe that’s why he says yes, because this all seems unrealistic and even if he doesn’t deserve something like this, he might as well enjoy it and ride it out while it lasts (at least he won’t wipe out that way). And so Tatsuya pushes that thought away from his mind, kisses Daiki over the kitchen table and holds his hand on the way back from the grocery store.  
  
It is glorious, destined to flame out like a comet that gets too close to the sun, its tail of ice all melted as it is lost to the soullessness of space. They play basketball as long as they can, always up for a rematch, always refreshed by each other; Daiki almost always wins but Tatsuya gets to know his game better and better, still can’t predict the formlessness and shapelessness but goes with his gut, the things Daiki’s done before. They adjust, un-adjust, the facets of their game against each other, shoot and steal and dribble, try to pass off fancy moves and grin at each other because it’s so fucking fun.  
  
The sex is good; the company is better; Tatsuya watches TV and Daiki dozes off with his head in Tatsuya’s lap; Tatsuya teaches Daiki how to cook (he’s an adult and truly sucks at it, but he’s getting better; he doesn’t burn rice and he can toss a salad and that’s a little way into the basics, okay).  
  
Tatsuya’s maybe a little too fond, so it’s best Daiki loses interest when he does. That it starts to deflate and Daiki scrambles out of obligation, giving Tatsuya enough time to compose himself for the end. They don’t bury the relationship in their funeral finery, but in a blistering fight, things Tatsuya’s not even mad about but he brings up. To make it easier, to give Daiki a clean out, no second thoughts. Maybe someday the good in this will outshine the bitterness.


	154. takamido, eternal crossbreeze

Takao speaks in riddles and hidden phrases sometimes, just to mess with Midorima and as if the normal way he speaks isn’t cryptic enough most of the time. Midorima will text him to ask where he is, when he wakes up with his alarm clock on a Sunday morning and the space beside him in bed is already cold and Takao has left a note jotting down today’s lucky item. There’s no time to waste in getting it, but Cancer’s third and he should be okay in the house for a little bit longer, to clean out the remains of Takao’s breakfast from the dirty pans on the stove and make his own toast and eggs.  
  
 _Where are you?_ Midorima texts.  
  
 _caught in the eternal crossbreeze_ is Takao’s response.   
  
Cryptic as usual, unknown. Midorima’s not the type to be suspicious; if Takao was doing anything he shouldn’t he’d be sneakier about it (not that he doesn’t know how to be bold, like coffee brewed to be poured over ice but then they drink it straight, even, when he wants to be). The eternal crossbreeze could be anything, errands he hadn’t told Midorima about (why would he need to?) or something he’d decided on the spur of the moment, being waylaid by a friend or acquaintance with no opportunity to wiggle out smoothly just yet. And Midorima doesn’t need to wait by the door for his return like an anxious pet; there is news to watch and there are books to catch up on reading, a lucky item perhaps to obtain (if Takao doesn’t want to go together).   
  
Takao returns not half an hour later, a plastic shopping bag from the convenience store down the block hanging between his fingers. He kisses Midorima hello and helps himself to a bite of Midorima’s toast (Midorima fixes a glare on him, but Takao shrugs like he’s just always so hungry that he has to). Midorima supposes he’ll forgive Takao for this, eventually.  
  
Five seconds later, when Takao dumps the contents of the convenience store bag on the table, he does (though the things have little to do with each other).  
  
“Cancer,” Takao says, pointing to the salt shaker, and then to the pepper. “Scorpio. Three and four.”  
  
He grins, pleased with himself. Some crossbreeze; it sounds more deliberate than anything Takao could have been caught in, but Midorima’s a little bit touched.   
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Takao pockets the pepper shaker and sits down beside him, leaning his entire weight on Midorima’s shoulder, and Midorima lets him (only for a bit).


	155. imasaku, kid needs a push

The first thing Imayoshi thinks when he looks at Sakurai is that the kid needs a push. Or two, or three. There is something Imayoshi’s seen on the videos Harasawa hasn’t bothered to watch yet, of Sakurai shrinking away, dutifully shooting and passing, and then suddenly unlocking some part of him, letting it snap into place. Maybe snap is the right word; he has to be bent until he breaks, snaps in two, becomes the other side of himself. (One, Imayoshi reckons, could probably not exist without the other, or at least to this extent; he’s not planning on fucking with the kid for any malicious purpose. All he’d like to do is unlock his basketball potential, the Touou way, which always means pushing.)  
  
He watches Sakurai in person, hears a scout say they think that there are probably more than a few better wings in his year, even disregarding the Teikou kids, Meikou’s strong tandem and that Tsugawa kid; he sees Sakurai’s eyes harden, as if shielding themselves with a helmet to chase the win. He makes his next five shots, release even quicker than the usual snap, as if he’s already shooting before the ball leaves the passer’s hands. Oh, that's going to be fun to play with if he comes to Touou.  
  
He’s coming to Touou, all right, and no, Imayoshi’s not even totally motivated by how cute he is (that might be a detriment; cute kids are trouble, not that he can’t deal with the distraction).   
  
Sakurai turns; he changes over quicker in games; it doesn’t seem to affect him. Sometimes it’s when he’s provoked; other times it’s just everyone around him, the way he knows to focus on the fact that he’s Touou; he’s better; there’s hungry wolves on the reserve squad snapping at his heels and he doesn’t need to prove himself to people like them but he has to prove himself to the world.  
  
It’s like how he kisses Imayoshi, snapping at his lips like he’s trying to show that he’s not just a small, cute kid; he’s the hungry one; he wants Imayoshi just as much as Imayoshi wants him, delightfully similar to a power struggle (if not the same). And Imayoshi will tug back as much as Sakurai wants to, pushing and pulling him the entire way. It’s too fun not too; there’s too much of Sakurai’s potential wasted if he doesn’t. He owes it to Sakurai, but Sakurai owes it to himself, too.


	156. kiyomurahana, unspeakably awful

They are unspeakably awful, the two of them. Murasakibara could say they’re gross and stupid and shit like that, but that doesn’t really convey the meaning of the things they do, the way they make people's skin crawl. Sure, he’d disliked them both on sight, Kiyoshi’s annoying sunny disposition and Hanamiya’s amusement with lying and then pretending he’d caught the other person with something. Murasakibara’s not impressed with either of them, or the things they think they’re hiding, the ugly parts of themselves that come out in sneaky sorts of ways.  
  
Murasakibara gets by on exploiting expectations; the key to that is doing as little as possible. If he sits in the back of the classroom (he has to; he’s so tall he’ll block everyone otherwise) and sleeps through class and pretends to not pay attention, then teachers will be pleasantly surprised by his more than decent grades. If they think he doesn’t try in one area, they think he won’t try anywhere; they’ll leave him to his own devices and won’t try to motivate him to do things he doesn’t want to do. If he doesn’t act like a team player, others compromise to meet him first.   
  
They are unspeakably awful, though, deep horrors beyond their surfaces, smiling as they’d cut someone’s throat (Kiyoshi that annoying cheerful thing, Hanamiya baring all of his fangs). But they're Murasakibara’s unspeakably awful people, even if they show it a little too much sometimes, even if more than a glancing blow can shatter their cheap front doors. But the unspeakable is fascinating; it’s better than what’s out here, the simplicity of basketball as basketball, even the simplicity of being the linchpin of a shield, blocks on blocks on blocks. Murasakibara kind of gets it, the way other people can’t shut up about basketball (well, sort of, kind of, okay, not entirely). Expectations subverted, subverted again. Something to dip his fingers in, thick and dark like molasses, better to bake cookies with, to paint on his tongue like their venomous kisses. They will crush and tear things apart; the way they annoy will build up to the way they kill, perhaps suddenly, with no warning. Warnings are overrated, Murasakibara thinks. And so are words, talking things through, writing them down in cramped characters on the margins of a paper; words are overrated. Perhaps that’s why he’s drawn to the unspeakably awful ones; he would never speak them if he could.


	157. aohimu, showboat

They bring their own net to the park because the hoops there don’t have them. Maybe they had, once, or maybe they never had; maybe they’d been ripped down by kids looking for some of their own or people who had decided it would be amusing to steal something like that, and there hadn’t been public funds to replace them. Maybe it’s ridiculous, bringing our own, but there’s something about the sound of a perfect shot through the net, the absence of which both of them feel. So Tatsuya shimmies up on the pole to install it, and Daiki openly gapes at his ass, because damn. Even in those loose basketball shorts, when he’s doing that? Damn.  
  
Tatsuya looks oh so pleased when he climbs down, like he fucking knows; he’s all smirking and, well, there’s still a basketball game to play. So they go, best of however many soon forgotten, scores lost track of, twos and threes and blocks and steals. They’re only playing on half a court but it’s not like it’s a big adjustment; it’s more fun that way when they can grapple for the rebound in the air on Tatsuya’s shot and Daiki can throw the dunk right in and hang on the rim and grin at Tatsuya for a few seconds before letting himself go.  
  
“Showboat,” he says.  
  
“Like you aren’t,” says Daiki, and Tatsuya shrugs, conceding (and then he makes a three from the farthest point; he lets Daiki give chase and ducks out of the way and they’re both too far to get the rebound but there isn’t one, nothing but net, the sweet swish of the ball against the rope).  
  
“Goddamn," says Daiki, and Tatsuya grins at him.  
  
They play until they barely can anymore, but they still have to get the net down; it’s Daiki who climbs up this time (and Tatsuya’s definitely staring at him with interest, the rolled-up sleeves and his sweat-caked skin; maybe Daiki stays up a little bit longer to give him a bit more of a show). He unhooks the net from where it’s fastened and tosses it down to Tatsuya; Tatsuya shoves it into his pocket. He looks good from this angle, but he looks better when he’s close enough to touch. Daiki comes back down, maybe a little too fast, but not fast enough either. He grabs Tatsuya’s hand, sweaty and warm, and right now he can’t wait to get home.


	158. aohimu, be happy

Tatsuya knows better than to think the world is fair, that there’s always an equivalent exchange. If you do bad now, it’ll come back to haunt you; that’s a self-fulfilling process. You’ll haunt yourself, overwrought with guilt; Tatsuya’s not that way as much as he used to be. But he used to be. And he still views the world as if happiness is of a finite supply, that it’s a zero sum game, that if you give some, if you feel some, that it’s taking away from someone else, somewhere else, somehow related. It’s like he wants to take on the burden of the negative happiness, the pain he thinks he’s caused. It’s why he tries to break up with Daiki, a very half-hearted attempt that Daiki sees right through, clearer than Tatsuya’s dusty kitchen window.  
  
“I want you to be happy,” Tatsuya says, like he’ll be secure in knowing how happy Daiki is if he takes more pain for himself.  
  
“I am happy,” Daiki says, looking into Tatsuya’s eye. “This isn’t the ideal situation, but I’m happy. I’d be even happier if you were happier, too, though; I’m happy when I make you happy.”  
  
Tatsuya looks at him, almost critically.  
  
“Look, I know you think there’s like, a finite supply of happiness or whatever. Or that I’d be happier without you, or that if I’m happy you can’t be happy. But that’s not how relationships work. Aren’t you happy being friends with Taiga and Alex?”  
  
(Maybe the wrong examples to use, given the wounds that still run deep, the cracks and crevasses in Tatsuya’s heart, but Tatsuya finally nods.)  
  
“This is kind of the same thing. It’s not like we have a shared bank account of happiness and it feels like you’re hoarding it all for yourself. You’re not; you’re not taking enough,” says Daiki, reaching his hand over to hold Tatsuya’s (and Tatsuya doesn’t draw it away).  
  
“Like, if we love each other, if we’re happy together, then it’s just going to keep feeding off of itself. Like, I’ll see you’re happy and you’ll see I’m happy, and then, you know? It’s not like were competing for the same thing.”  
  
“I know,” says Tatsuya.  
  
But does he, really? Maybe he’s just afraid, but Daiki’s not going to call him on it right now; it won’t do either of them any good (he’s thought about it, words about to fall from his lips, but what’s the use).   
  
“So can you try to be happy with me? And I’ll let you know if I’m not, okay?”  
  
Tatsuya waits a few seconds, and then nods.  
  
“You let me know, too,” says Daiki, squeezing his hand.


	159. nijihimu, playing the bad guy

Tatsuya’s got no problem playing the bad guy. He’ll take on the pain; he’ll deserve the pain, equal to what he’s caused. It’s for the better, in the end. It’s for the better that he’d struck his bond with Taiga in two; Taiga doesn’t need someone like Tatsuya holding him back. Wherever Taiga is, it’s probably the stratosphere; Tatsuya’s here with lead around his ankles and memories of the pain in Taiga’s eyes. Shuu’s different; with Shuu it’s a little murkier because Shuu knows what it’s like to be the bad guy, to take the pain. But Shuu’s not that way anymore; he’s shed his skin and molted like a phoenix, risen from the remains of what he once was. But Tatsuya’s stuck—not physically, though. That’s the kicker.  
  
He’s leaving for Akita, soon; he’s leaving home and he’s leaving Shuu behind, Shuu who’s been so patient and kind with him when he doesn’t deserve it, Shuu who deserves so much better, Shuu who’s going to be hurt that he’s leaving. Butter to hurt him once now, make it a clean break, than have it slowly rot away with the distance, better for Shuu to think there could have been something more than for him to realize once Tatsuya’s gone how much better it is now that he’s not here but then feel guilty. Better for him to shut the door now, to make Shuuzou hurt and frustrated enough to want him to leave.   
  
“What’s wrong?” Shuu says.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” says Tatsuya, and he turns away.  
  
Shuu’s frustrated, and it hurts to see him like this; Shuu deserve better.  
  
“Just fucking tell me,” Shuu says. “Please, Tatsuya, whatever you think I might think.”  
  
(Two days out, he might as well.”  
  
“I’m leaving,” says Tatsuya. “I’m going to Akita. That’s it; none of this fucking matters, okay? I’ll be there; you'll be here; that’s the way it is.”  
  
“Oh,” says Shuu, and Tatsuya can see the hurt cracking his face into pieces like a plate that shouldn’t go into the microwave. “Shit, Tatsuya. Of course it still matters. What doesn't matter is how much of a dick you try to be, because I’m going to miss you anyway, okay? And I’ll wait for you, even if you don’t want me to.”  
  
His arm is warm around Tatsuya’s shoulders, his hand squeezing Tatsuya’s arm; Tatsuya wants to feel the cold but he leans in; his body’s such a fucking traitor and now he feels like crying, too.   
  
“We’ll be okay," says Shuu, and Tatsuya wants to curl up and fit through a hole so small Shuu can’t follow him; he wants to hug Shuu full-on and never let him go, say screw Akita and stay here.


	160. garciraki, red thread

They’re connected. It’s probably not through some red thread; Alex doesn’t believe in fate. Maybe it makes her a coward, afraid to accept that this is the only way her life could have gone; maybe it makes her the opposite, not placating herself with everything that’s happened being her lot, inescapable. Still, Alex remembers the first time she’d seen Masako, in the stands at an international tournament, checking out the Russian team as they played against the Japanese team. There was one player on Team Japan with so much fight in her, so much determination to steal the ball from players twice her size, to shoot when there was no open room, to jump and block the ball when no one was paying attention to her. She can’t carry this team that far, but goddamn.   
  
They’d never gotten the chance to play each other; the brackets had never aligned and then Alex had retired. She hadn’t thought about Japan’s number eight, Araki, all that much. A passing thought, then perhaps that she’d retired too when she’d looked up the Japanese roster for the next FIBA event and there had been someone else wearing eight. And Alex had no chance of meeting her really; her basketball was now on the streets, outside of the pro circuit completely; the odds of Masako ever intersecting with that had been so minuscule that it had never happened.  
  
Alex hadn’t expected to meet Masako at a high school tournament, either, but there she was, long hair and a suit but still undeniably the same woman, the same no-nonsense expression; Alex had found her all over again and maybe this time she’d get a chance to face her on the court, to tell her something, anything. It had been the next time, actually; she’d gone up to Akita to visit Tatsuya once everything had been settled, Tatsuya who’d been there not even a full year and was already captain, something Masako had seen in him, the same as Alex has.   
  
A repeated set of encounters is not a shorthand for fate, but ever since then, even now Alex feels it, spreading through her, the knowledge from the start that she’d wanted to be with Masako. A connection, from across the court, a connection that Masako says she’d felt, too, watching Alex’s games, nothing like the term soul mates, instant clicking, smooth road—but perhaps that shorthand isn’t completely inappropriate; it’s a close enough approximation that they might as well let it fit.


	161. aomurahimu, gay shit

Atsushi squints in the light coming through the blinds, then falls back onto the bed, looking up at neither Daiki nor Tatsuya. “This is pretty gay, isn’t it?”  
  
Daiki’s first urge is to say what the fuck, but he can see Tatsuya shaking with laughter out of the corner of his eye and maybe this is some inside joke between the two of them? On the other hand, it’s kind of amusing—but also, what the fuck.  
  
“Um,” says Daiki. “Kind of, but you’re a guy; you’ve been having sex with us for a while and we’ve always been dudes, so why bring this up now? Sudden sexuality crisis?”  
  
Atsushi shrugs. “Dunno. I mean, I thought about it but I didn’t like, think about it.”  
  
It’s kind of cute and kind of weird but so Atsushi, to just think about it and state it like that; Daiki rolls over and kisses him on the cheek.  
  
“That’s pretty gay,” says Atsushi. “That right there. Like, gayer than when you fuck me.”  
  
“Are you measuring this on your pocket Kinsey scale?” says Tatsuya, voice dripping with even more open amusement, and Daiki rolls over again to tug him closer to Atsushi’s side of the bed.   
  
“I’m just saying,” says Atsushi.  
  
“What do you want me to say, that it’s not?” says Daiki.   
  
Atsushi sighs, pulling the covers over all of them. It’s the middle of the day; they still haven’t gotten up yet; there’s a lot they could do. There’s shit they have to do, grocery shopping (after they plan dinner) because they probably don’t want to do takeout three days in a row, training or at least some kind of workout (probably, hopefully, some kind of two on one if it’s not too hot out). Sex, maybe, as long as Atsushi doesn’t remind them in the middle how gay it is. Daiki nestles closer under the blankets, to both Atsushi and Tatsuya as best he can. Atsushi sighs again, but not like he’s unwilling. Eventually, his arm makes its way around Daiki’s waist and Daiki kisses his collarbone in response.   
  
“Gay,” Tatsuya whispers, and Daiki kicks his ankle.   
  
Yeah, all of this is pretty fucking gay. It’s gayer than just passively liking other dudes, because there’s actually two other guys here along with him; Atsushi would probably quantify that. But however it fits into whichever scale or arbitrary judgement, this is the best kind of gay shit there is.


	162. nijihai, like a tattoo

Haizaki’s tried to forget for a long time, but Nijimura’s tattooed on him deeper than the one he actually has on his upper arm, the black compass edged in green and blue. Nijimura’s scar is uglier, not shaped like a rainbow but maybe colored like it, garishly bright and no matter how dark it gets Haizaki can still fucking see it. He thinks about Nijimura, how much he’d wanted Nijimura to notice him, the few times Nijimura had. And then he’d abruptly ceded to Akashi like a coward (okay, so Haizaki had found out later that his dad was sick and he’d had shit to do, but still, at the time it had cut him deep and that shit’s never going to heal up good). He tries not to think about Nijimura, because how fucking pathetic is he, a college student still fluttering his fucking eyelashes over a middle school crush? It’s so fucking pathetic; at least he’s stopped seeing Nijimura everywhere he looks, and maybe it’s that thought that makes him see Nijimura again, standing in line when it’s his shift at the cash register in the coffee shop he works at and, fuck. It is him, isn’t it? He’d never forget that lip curl, those eyes.  
  
“How can I help you?”  
  
“Haizaki?”  
  
Oh, shit. Nijimura hasn’t forgotten him, either. There’s only one person behind him in line, still staring at the menu, making up her mind.   
  
“Nijimura. Hey. You going to order?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” says Nijimura. “Small latte, no foam?”   
  
Haizaki nods. “Coming right up.”  
  
*  
  
Nijimura starts frequenting the coffee shop, stealing words with Haizaki, like he wants to talk, like they’d been friends. Maybe Nijimura’s lonely, but that doesn’t make sense; he’s got those glorious miracle boys already. But they don’t come up in the conversation, and Haizaki’s pretty glad, a little bit satisfied (for once the world’s not revolving around them, ha).   
  
“I’m surprised to see you doing well in customer service,” says Nijimura, and it comes off teasing, but still.  
  
“I’ve grown up,” Haizaki fires back, and it’s harsher than he'd intended but not harsher than he’d thought.  
  
“Yeah, I know,” says Nijimura.   
  
Oh. Fuck.  
  
It’s not like this has done anything to help Haizaki’s latent crush, now that Nijimura’s noticing him, Nijimura, an adult, looking at him now. He’s still fucking hot; he’s still strong; he’s still tall and Haizaki is determined not to let this go too far.  
  
“When’s your shift over? I thought we could do something,” says Nijimura.  
  
“Are you asking me out?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Nijimura, as if it should be obvious.  
  
“Fuck you, okay,” says Haizaki.


	163. aomura, nobody's home

_come over my parents aren’t home,_ Murasakibara texts.  
  
He has to wait a little bit for a response, and thinks about adding that his siblings aren’t there either. That doesn’t really matter, though; they bring people over all the time.   
  
_im contemplating_ , Aomine texts back.  
  
 _my siblings aren’t either_  
  
 _none of us are_  
  
What. On the surface it feels deep but Murasakibara’s pretty sure if he tries to get in it might only come up to his knees. This is almost normal for Aomine’s self-described profound thoughts, but it’s worth asking him anyway.  
  
 _are you on drugs_  
  
There’s no response after that; Murasakibara sighs. He’s only going to be home for a few more days; it would be nice to have Aomine over so they could do stuff. This whole long distance thing is pretty annoying, having to arrange their schedules and spend most of the time talking and, okay, Murasakibara doesn’t, like, crave Aomine’s touch. But maybe he misses it a little. He’s trying to sleep when his phone vibrates.  
  
 _im downstairs_  
  
Aomine doesn’t look high; Murasakibara can’t taste or smell anything on his breath; he looks into Aomine’s pupils but they’re a normal size. So this is just him spending too much time thinking (he should be careful not to wear out his brain; Murasakibara’s told him that and Aomine’s rolled his eyes and said like Murasakibara’s so smart, and Murasakibara would like to think he’s smarter than Aomine at least). He’s waiting for Aomine to say something more, not something cheesy like when they’re together they’re home (this isn’t some dumb TV drama and they’re only seventeen) but maybe something else, maybe something completely unrelated.   
  
“Are you still panicking?” Murasakibara says.  
  
“I wasn’t,” says Aomine.  
  
Murasakibara shrugs; they’ve probably had enough excitement for the day anyway (and he’s not going to let Aomine drag him out to play basketball). He tugs on Aomine’s hand and they head upstairs, to his overly small bedroom (the fucking dorm room is better).   
  
“Let’s just take a nap,” says Murasakibara.  
  
Aomine yawns. “Sounds good.”  
  
He curls up in Murasakibara’s arms, pretty damn cute. Murasakibara’s parents’ cat peeks its head into the door and Murasakibara glares at it; he’s not getting up and feeding it (he never does). Aomine’s asleep in a few moment, probably dreaming about skies that burst open with basketballs or something. Murasakibara’s not long after.


	164. garciraki, don't lose your heart

“Don’t lose your heart,” people tell Alex, as if that’s a danger only inherent to her relationship, as if she’s a child who needs to be lectured on love, as if because Masako’s far away she’ll cheat or lose interest, or Alex will and she’ll be torn between a sham relationship and the things that hold her here.  
  
As if they hadn’t thought about all of that going in; it’s not as if they have anything to compare it to, a way of being with each other in the same place all the time. They’ve never had that luxury; it ought to mean they can’t miss it, because how can you miss something, feel its absence, if it was never there? But it settles like a weight, a thought; they do spend time together, weeks or so at a time, not really enough for them to ever cohabit, live their own lives, devote their time together to much more than each other. Their lives are separate, not compartmentalized but it’s how it shakes out; each time they visit each other they pick up more, feel a bit more of each other’s worlds.   
  
But they’d known that going in, met each other first but fallen for each other over distance, through words on wi-fi signals, still pictures as snapshots of each other’s lives. They’re strong enough to bridge that gap, hands over the ocean, sadly less than literal but damn well closer than they ought to be (though, really, they ought to be somewhere together except there’s no real halfway between homes, no real half-LA and half-Akita place that they can find, or at least none they’ve found as of yet—but considering the circumstances as they are).  
  
They tell her not to lose her heart but she’s already given so much of it away, left it in Masako’s arms, in her sleepy stare as Alex just gets her glasses on, her hair all tangled up again; in the quiet way she reads the newspaper in the evening and explains Japanese politics, in the way Masako holds her tightly at the airport like she wants to physically stick them together so it can’t be helped that they can’t be unstuck. The only heart she’s worried about losing is Masako’s, if she doesn’t take care. But she will; she’s seen Masako leave her heart in the same way, under Alex’s fingernails and in the insides of her wrists, the bottoms of her knees.


	165. aohimu, hockey au

They’re doomed; that’s what everyone says; game four and they’ve looked sluggish at best through the first three, overmatched. Maybe it’s true on paper but they play the games on ice; one hit can turn the tide and one shift can produce a disappointment or a sudden change in momentum, in the swing of the score. The goalie can be left out to dry but lights out anyway, playing like he’s been possessed by the spirit of an angry goalie risen from the dead, outraged at the injustice of it all or just bored in goalie hell.  
  
But before the puck even gets to the net it comes down to the skaters, the faceoffs, the pucks on smaller sticks, blade to blade, body to boards, fist to fist if it comes to that, blood and teeth and swearing and broken sticks, blades tangled in the ice. It comes down to them, and Daiki’s pretty sure if Tatsuya could singlehandedly own this game, play all sixty minutes, he could (he’s probably asked the coaches if he could already). But that’s the thing, the beauty and the agony of hockey; your best player will only approach half the game out there in dire straits; they’re not going to do that to their captain when they might need him for game five—they might do that if the possibility they’ll even get to game five looks tinier.  
  
They’re doomed from the start, sloppy shifts that always end up in their own zone wherever they begin, lost faceoffs everywhere, shitty penalties. Daiki heads for the box on a boarding call he really can’t argue, cursing under his breath; he catches Tatsuya’s glare full-on. They kill the penalty but the pressure in the zone keeps up; a puck pokes through and they’re down one.  
  
They make it through the third somehow knotted at two, like a goddamn miracle. Tatsuya’s been playing out of his mind, killing the penalties, scoring a sweet little powerplay goal to tie the game up early in the third, flying across the ice to get to the puck, giving Daiki passes that smack against his stick. They shouldn’t be here; this is borrowed time; they’re fucking doomed. Who gives a shit about their fate when they can push back a little longer, a little longer, until they win it all?   
  
Tatsuya passes Daiki the puck after winning the first faceoff in OT. They’re not doomed at all; Daiki breaks away from the defenders, skates down hard, and then passes it back to where he knows Tatsuya’s going to be. They’ve all been circling him; they haven’t bothered to check Tatsuya; the puck plants itself in the net.   
  
Daiki makes a valiant attempt at kissing Tatsuya despite their helmets, in the middle of a pile of everyone. They’re still fucking doomed but they’re not dead yet.


	166. aokaga, eating glass

It all goes to shit and then they eat the glass.   
  
They can no longer afford the vast quantities of food that Taiga wants; he’s hungry but he just digs his fingers into the couch and his teeth into teach other but fuck that. It’s not like they can watch the TV; there’s been a hole put through it and it was way too old anyway. And maybe there’s no nutritioual value when Daiki gets up, reaches over, and breaks off a piece of the front, broken glass sharply edged in a way that makes Taiga turn over the piece so carefully in his hand before eating it.  
  
It’s not a question of if he will; it’s a question of the sound of crunching under his teeth, the edges that he doesn’t get filed down, the feeling of holy shit he’s actually doing it. Shards and powder on his hands from where he breaks off smaller pieces. He beckons to it, as if Daiki should have some next. Daiki’s not so hungry but he’s getting there, ripping and tearing at the future, an unknown from all directions. The glass is cool under his tongue, when he takes a piece; it’s not going to try and kill him.   
  
The glass on the window panes is broken, and even when it’s not they steadily chew their way through, one broken at a time (but then they’re not totally finished with the kitchen when Daiki starts to take form the bathroom, but the bathroom windows are tinted, a different kind of delicious texture than the rest. When they run out of windows they start on the dishes in the cabinet, the rest of the television. There’s something so satisfying about sharing a wine glass in between the two of them, even though there’s no wine and just emptiness and the sharp edges of the glass cutting their tongues. When they kiss each other they both taste blood from both sides, rusty salt from tongues on tongues on glass. Soon, it’s all going to be gone, just like everything else, glaringly finite in a world that can be strikingly unwilling and unfair sometimes. They’ll think of something, the way they always do, the way they’d thought of this and kept going, let the glass pile up in their stomachs until there was barely any room for anything else. But they’ve always got room for each other, stomachs, arms, hearts.


	167. aomido, reincarnation au

They had been samurai once, storming a castle, honor in their hearts and swords by their sides. They had taken it; they had taken many, serving their lord with unquestioned loyalty. And their loyalty was buried below that, too, loyalty to each other, an arm around the other’s shoulders and touches, kisses, beyond close doors. It had been easy to figure out that they were intimate, that they had cared for each other as well as for the cause they swore to. They would run their hands over each other’s, promising to be careful until one day the promises did not hold. Some are merciless; they slaughter senselessly; they had both been victims, perhaps for the best that they hadn’t been left there to bleed out or fall upon their own swords. Perhaps it was for the best that they had not seen each other and were left wondering, hoping for the other’s safety in vain.  
  
They had been politicians, too, the last century, neither of them patient enough but raised for that world, the sons of the right (wrong) people. It had been easy for Aomine to spot Midorima, uncomfortable as he was at functions of state. They passed the time arguing, off to the side, engaged in whatever else was going on, not the particulars of political machinations, not the way their fathers wanted them to be. They knew; they had figured it out, what they once had been before. They had snuck off in the summer heat, complaining of aversion and assistance (Midorima doesn’t like lying like this but Aomine’s point that hey, he does want to avoid those people doesn’t he? rings true enough) but really stealing time together.  
  
They always resist, at first; perhaps the resistance is part of the cycle, the way they remember and thing that this time it’ can’t work so well as it has before, fate or otherwise. They are always the same but always different, changed by the waters of their courses, separate but parallel until they meet again. How long until their paths come together and then diverge? They always remember, the first time they see each other; it all comes back in bits and pieces and then a flood,e very lifetime, samurai and politicians and rakugo performers and fishermen and foot soldiers, priest and worshipper, farmer and merchant.   
  
In this life they meet so young, the first day of middle school, the two tallest in the class. In this life there is the two of them and basketball, the usual resistance smoothed over and filed down because of it (their styles are different, yes, but wouldn’t that have always been the case?) and their first kiss is behind the convenience store while everyone else is dividing up the popsicles.   
  
“It’s always this good,” Aomine murmurs, and he kisses Midorima again (and even just because, Midorima wouldn’t disagree with him there).


	168. kikasa, all too soon

Kasamatsu stays when Kise’s injured. It’s not like he can go. There’s no duty pulling him in; he’s been relieved of his position as captain. If it were that, it would be Hayakawa (though he’s probably not so good at dealing with injuries yet). It’s not out of obligation as Kise’s boyfriend although that means he ought to, he has to; even if he weren’t Kasamatsu would still want to be there. He’s not going to, like, carry Kise’s books for him or some shit (the way the fangirls who coo over him keep offering to do; let them do it if they want) but he’ll ask when Kise’s thoughts are slipping, when he becomes a little bit closer to transparent. Is Kise’s leg okay? Is he taking the proper medication?   
  
Kise doesn’t leave when Kasamatsu’s studying for college exams. At first he makes a few snarky remarks, but he’s sensitive enough to the situation that he stops. He naps on Kasamatsu’s bed; he tries to help Kasamatsu with his studies (and succeeds in boosting his confidence); he drags him out to dinner even if it’s just the convenience store to get away from the boring monotony of the dorm room. Kise’s leg still hurts, bu the’s still thinking about basketball, basketball with Kasamatsu. Again, someday.  
  
They trust each other; this is too late for the kind of basketball they’re used to playing with each other but it’s not too late for any of this, for touches and kisses, for Kise to flirt boldly in the hall. Half the time Kasamatsu’s completely embarrassed; the other half he’s mildly exasperated by Kise and by not being able to do much about it then and there.  
  
But then graduation comes, all too soon; Kasamatsu’s leaving but he won’t be leaving Kise. Not completely. They still have basketball, one on ones they can fit into their schedules, each other’s games that they can watch (even if it’s nowhere near the same as taking the court together). They’ll still be dating; they’ll still have dates when Kise’s work lets him out and when Kasamatsu’s classes are all done, when they’re both in Tokyo and an hour feels almost illicit, like time they shouldn’t have. But it’s time they need to have, if they want to still have this, so they probably won’t feel that guilty, if at all. Their last kiss here (for now) is soft and warm, quick but full of promises to keep waiting for each other. As they always do.


	169. aomura, freaks

They’re really fucking freaks now. Well, Aomine’s a fucking freak, broken through a door, smashed a barrier, and ended up all alone in what seems like the other side of the ocean from everyone else (most Tetsu, Satsuki, and Kise; they’re the ones that matter like that). It’s like he doesn’t know how to live in a world with normal people, coexist with anything other than his own mind. Maybe in some past life he’d been the same kind of monster, through sport or no; maybe that’s why he falls into it or no, resisting all he can but the walls of the chute are too smooth, made so by all the past lives he’s slid down into this.  
  
Murasakibara joins him on the roof now sometimes; he’s made breakthroughs of his own, done shit he thinks he shouldn’t, the way Akashi’s eyes are all weird and the way Midorima looks at him as if to ask him to take it all back. Murasakibara’s always had burdens he doesn’t want to carry, early physical development and the expectations that come with that, being mistaken for older than he is and being told what he should be, accused of lying because how is a guy like that in middle school? He shrugs off as much of the weight as he can\, but the faster he runs the more these weights slow him down.  
  
They don’t talk about it at all when it’s the two of them, just lying and looking at the sky, Aomine glancing over to see Murasakibara’s forearms, the sleeves of that blue uniform shirt rolled up, their ridiculous definition, the hands they end in, large enough to grip just about anything, wrist to fingertip maybe close to the diameter of a basketball hoop. But why’s he thinking about basketball again?   
  
Murasakibara’s kiss is soft, demanding; it’s not tentative or naive, but Aomine hadn’t been expecting those things. He might not have been surprised, but he’s finding out more and more that the general perception on Murasakibara isn’t quite the same as the way he is, the way he hides behind snacks and nonsense phrases. Aomine can taste the sugar on his tongue, the strawberry pocky or the chocolate or the popsicle he offers to split with Aomine because eh doesn’t want to melt. It turns their lips and tongues purple until they kiss it off each other. They’re both monsters now, though maybe they already were; at least they have each other.


	170. momoriko, nondestructive

They’re competitive, but people often mistake that for wanting to destroy each other. Girls are catty and mean, they say, an expectation and a way of seeing things in ways they want to see them. They look at competition and see something unhealthy, a toxic zero sum where only one of them can ever win. Of course that’s sometimes true, but they don’t see the way Riko and Satsuki push each other to be better by getting better themselves; they don’t see the unconditional support.  
  
They don’t see the two of them coming home after separate long days, lying on the couch and just breathing together. They can talk about it; they’re going to talk about it but they don’t have to yet; it’s better to unwind into each other, loose spools of thread tangling up until there’s no beginning or no end. They turn the volume off on the news and Riko brushes Satsuki’s hair aside and kisses her; there’s dinner to order and bicker over who gets which part of which dish and there are showers to take, each other’s backs to wash if they have the time.   
  
They fall asleep together, murmuring things, details of the day, things about each other, thoughts until they peter out into the subconscious of sleep until the morning when the alarm clock rings. Satsuki tries to keep Riko in bed; Riko heads out tow ash her face, do her makeup, put her contacts in; Satsuki makes her way into the bathroom soon after to do her own routine and to finish up Riko’s with her, brush through her hair while Riko mutters something about being more gentle, and wait for the mirror sitting on the toilet checking through her work phone for new emails (Riko’s stopped trying to get her not to do it).  
  
Breakfast is split from something they usually half-burn in the microwave; some days it turns out okay or still half-frozen and some days it turns out inedible and they have to stop by the convenience store and get pastries; Riko thinks about the empty calories but how empty can they be when the fill her up, when she looks at Satsuki and there’s honey and icing stuck to her lips as if she’s a pastry queen who needs her crown adjusted? So Riko kisses her, just for a second, just so Satsuki’s lips are free, and Satsuki grins back at her as if in victory, as if she’d planned this (but Riko can’t be mad).


	171. aokaga, kind of stupid

Kagami feels kind of stupid sometimes, like Aomine’s stupidity is rubbing off on him. I’s not like suddenly he doesn’t understand shit; it’s not like he was some kind of Rhodes Scholar to begin with. But when he’s with Aomine, sometimes he can’t think; sometimes the only thing he can think about is Aomine, his hair grown out a little, that casual way he sits arms back and legs spread taking up way too much space on the park bench (so it seems like there’s barely room for the basketball next to him).   
  
(“You’re just in love,” Tatsuya had said, as if this was all some sort of giant amusement, and Kagami doesn’t think he’s funny—he knows he’s in love, but this is, like, something else, probably).  
  
Or maybe Tatsuya’s right, and maybe no matter what the reason Kagami should stop worrying. He doesn’t so much when they’re playing ball in the park, when he’s not supposed to be thinking about much other than the way Aomine’s moving and the way to block, how high he has to jump and when to time it, when to get in a shot of his own, a dunk or a longer jump shot just out of Aomine’s reach (but they foul each other, too; they both know the rules of street ball and the way they get physical; there’s no referee, just the two of them). Aomine grabs Kagami’s ass between plays, as if to rattle him; Kagami grabs Aomine’s back because he’s not going to let him have all the fun.  
  
Loser buys the ice cream, but even when Kagami wins it ends up being his treat, not that he minds. It’s only a few hundred yen for soft serve, melting on their tongues and shared between them because even when they both get the swirl they’re never happy with not giving and taking all over again. They lick it from each other’s tongues in the hallway while Aomine pretends to fumble with the keys, though Kagami’s seen him open the door dead tired and dead drunk before, but he doesn’t mind the obvious ploy. It’s not a trap if they both fall in and enjoy it, is it? There’s no reason to pretend, though, not when they end up in bed with the ice cream melting sticky on the sheets they’ve been sweating in anyway so they might as well change, the feeling of body on body, no clothes, no basketball, no ice cream in the way.


	172. haikaga, like valentines

“I like you,” Shougo says, his face coloring at the sides, and that much has been obvious to Taiga for a while now.  
  
He’d figured Shougo didn’t want to do anything about it, that he’s not great with feelings or wasn’t ready, that he’d give him time to get things settled and figure his shit out. If that meant keeping this thing going until it really was just casual sex for Shougo, friendship attached (benefits with friends?) he’d back off. He just hadn’t wanted to make a move, scare him off, wanted to have his twenty cakes of sex every time their teams met and dumb texting conversations and eat his fantasy of Shougo coming to him and asking him to give it a go sometimes. Taiga waits for Shougo to continue; there’s got to be more to it than that.  
  
“I know there’s a lot of distance, and I understand if it’s like, a casual thing to you, and I don’t want to make things awkward.”  
  
“Are you asking me out?”  
  
Shougo shrugs and tries very hard to keep his eyes focused on Taiga’s rather than look away; it hasn’t been too long ago that he’d avert his eyes most of the time when he was giving Taiga looks like this.   
  
“I like you, too, and I want a relationship with you. Like, valentines and mushy shit even if you yell at me about it.”  
  
That gets a half-smile from Shougo at least.   
  
“But if you’re not sure, if you’re not ready, then I don’t want to push you because I like what we have.”  
  
“I mean. I’ll probably never be ready, and I might screw things up and it’s weird for me, you know, to feel like I have to be careful not to with you, because I don’t want to. I want us to be good; I want you to like me.”  
  
“I’m not going to hate you if you forget to buy milk.”  
  
“I know,” says Shougo. “Like, actual screwups, you know? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, even with this. Friends or fuck buddies or whatever.”  
  
“You’re doing pretty good,” Taiga says, smiling in a way he hopes is encouraging.  
  
“Well, yeah. Obviously. But that’s not always going to be the case.”  
  
“Good relationships aren’t perfect,” says Taiga. “But like I said, I don’t want to pressure you.”  
  
“I want this; I want to go out with you and date you and all that stuff. Stay with you more than a week or so in the summer, not just when it’s convenient. I just want you to know, like. Me.”  
  
“I know you,” says Taiga. “None of us ever knows what we’re really getting into, though.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess,” says Shougo. “But I’m in; this isn’t, like equivocating or waiting for you; I’m in.”  
  
Taiga’s pretty sure he’s never smiled this wide before.


	173. aomurakagahimu x nba asg

There isn’t much of a downside to the all star game, especially when they all get to go (Atsushi complains about working on his off weekend, but they’ve still got the break afterwards and it’s just one game where they split the minutes pretty evenly; Atsushi always ends up denying that he’d wanted to play more). It’s the one chance they have to all play together, a handful of charity matches in the offseason aside; being split between four NBA teams (at least they’re all in the Eastern Conference right now) and two national teams makes that pretty damn near impossible at any other time. By far the biggest downside is the hotel, the bill footed by the league (not cheap, but considering their salaries not bad) and the regular king size bed they all try to cram onto. They’ve had their share of hotel beds in their combined years playing in the league, most of them big and empty and nowhere near as good as home, especially home when you’re with someone else (or multiple someone elses). But trying to fit four guys their size on this is a little bit tight, a little bit cramped. Tatsuya offers to take one of the other hotel rooms, take someone with him, but it’s not like anyone really wants to leave; it’s not like they’re going to split off into twos all over again.   
  
And despite the tight fit, once they’re in and asleep Atsushi absolutely doesn’t want to leave.   
  
“This is better than basketball," he says, hugging Taiga close to his chest; Taiga’s already halfway dressed, shaved and teeth brushed and he’s completely unamused by Atsushi.   
  
He can’t disagree; he can’t agree; fuck. He’s just not going to say anything other than telling Atsushi to get off him.   
  
“Aww,” Daiki coos. “How romantic.”  
  
Tatsuya’s doing up his tie, way better than Daiki ever has himself even if it always takes him a few tries to get it right (Taiga usually does his, tight against his collar, knuckles against Tatsuya’s throat).   
  
“I’m not waiting for you," says Taiga, tugging himself free.  
  
(He ends up being the last one in the room with Atsushi, yelling at him to hurry the fuck up and all they have to do is get down to breakfast and doesn’t he want pastries—apparently not enough to speed his routine up all that much.)  
  
But then there’s the game, the four of them; it almost doesn’t matter who the fifth is. It feels as if they could take on the whole West team at once, just the four of them, the passes that they’ve practiced, the slick alley-oops, Atsushi staying back to shoot a three of his own (and slow or not, God, that wingspan). The four of them, together, are an eclipse; they know each other’s basketball well enough to come in like an explosion and take no prisoners. They’re still high off the victory when they collapse in the tiny bed late that night, just the four of them once more. Yeah, the downsides to this thing are pretty minimal.


	174. akamido, rakuzan flower shop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> magical/talking flowers au

  
It is an ordinary day, the hum of the hydroponic systems in the air, Akashi’s reading glasses low on his nose and a novel open on his desk. He’s read all of the relevant botanical literature, and it gets too boring sometimes when he’s surrounded by his work to read about it more. The flowers chatter to each other, the four closest to the front (best cared for, not for sale) peer out of the tinted glass window.  
  
“Sei-chan!”  
  
“Yes?” says Akashi, laying the book folded open on the counter.  
  
“There’s a boy outside.”  
  
Akashi’s used to hearing the tones of roses, but the Mibuchi variety has always puzzled him (and Reo in particular). He can’t tell if it’s quite with disdain or with interest, or perhaps mixed with both.  
  
“He’s kinda cute. He’s green, you know,” says Kotarou.  
  
Akashi looks out the window; a boy with very green hair and glasses is indeed looking inside. He is quite cute, even if he’s rather tall, very long legs (lake a dance, perhaps, but maybe he’s too tall for that). Akashi takes off his reading glasses and leans forward; the boy moves toward the door and opens it.  
  
The previous proprietor of the shop had left a chime in the door; Akashi had taken it down quickly because he’d found it annoying, and the flowers had expressed similar opinions.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
He has a deep, rich voice; Akashi likes him already. “Hello. How can I help you?”  
  
“I was looking for a plant…a geranium, maybe, for my sister.”  
  
“Ah,” says Akashi. “Follow me.”  
  
Geraniums are chatty, but the boy looks like he knows what he wants, a lovely one in a small pot that it might get too big for soon, of the Kimura variety. It’s strong and hardy, and though geraniums tend to be talkative (yappy, even) this one’s more content to listen. As Akashi explains, the boy nods in approval.  
  
“Pick me, damn it!” says one from the shelf above, and Akashi is going to have to have another talk with them about manners.  
  
The boy doesn’t seem to mind it too much; it makes his decision to buy the Kimura all the more firm. His eyelashes are long, casting shadows on his face under the garden lightbulbs; he’s nearly tall enough for his head to clear the shelf, and Akashi thinks about leaning back and pulling him down for a kiss. A nice fantasy to break up the monotony of the workplace, he supposes.  
  
“Please come back soon,” Akashi says as the boy (Midorima, according to his credit card) signs the receipt.  
  
He nods, and then blushes. Very good.


	175. aokisehimu, together

They shouldn’t play streetball after a night game, when it’s already close to eleven as they get out of the arena, but fuck it. They haven’t had a chance to do this in too long, and its the stuff their relationship is built on. Aomine, Kise, a basketball, a gym or a park or anywhere. It’s a week night and it’s hot for November; no one’s out and they have the whole court to themselves to screw around, to block and shoot and push each other, to kiss under the streetlight afterwards. Aomine takes a picture to send to Himuro, him and Kise and the basketball under the hoop. Himuro calls them, and they’re all sleepy already (Himuro’s still on the east coast) but they manage to hold on for half an hour, their voices blending over the speakerphone.  
  
*  
  
Aomine visits Himuro in December; it’s too cold already to go outside, an early snowfall blanketing the city in white-grey-black, snow melting to ice with car exhaust, punctured by holes until it looks like a demented sea sponge. Himuro’s got the keys to the Knicks’ practice facility, though; he says it’s fine if Aomine comes, too, as long as he doesn’t steal their secrets. It’s weird being in a gym this big just the two of them, the lights so bright and their voices echoing off the nothing; it seems like every shot is a little bit longer and Himuro’s three from just beyond the arc is practically full-court. They’re still hot when they get out of the facility, but they hold sweaty hands anyway. Himuro texts Kise and receives a string of emoji in response; he and Aomine take turns trying to decipher it all.  
  
*  
  
Kise and Himuro are both in LA at the same time, Kise to play the Clippers and Himuro to play the Lakers. It’s the rare happy accident in the grueling schedule, even if they have to deal with Kise playing three games in four nights and Himuro’s jet lag from the fight in from Florida. It’s nice to be in LA in the winter because it’s warm, and right now relatively dry; Himuro doesn’t complain about the New York weather too much (not as much as he used to, anyway) but Kise can tell it perks him up being home. He also knows the street courts well, knows where the two of them can sneak in unnoticed and battle for the rim, face off the way their teams won’t for another two months. Aomine calls Kise when they’re finishing up, and they talk underneath the hoop, voices in low murmurs, Himuro’s arm around Kise’s waist.


	176. momoriko, frost maiden au

Satsuki is of the frost. She sinks back in each year to the snow as it disappears around her, as the sky warms and the day breaks. The snow melts and she melts and then there is spring, trees remembering that they can create colors less bleak than brown-grey, mosses and lichens and flowers pushing out of the ground. At least that’s how Satsuki’s always heard it described, by the people she visits, who let her in not knowing what she is.  
  
Riko knows; Riko lets her in still. Their window is vanishing as Riko grows older but Satsuki stays the same, forever young and frozen in that cold winter way, pale skin pale eyes pale hair. This is but a small blip in her life, but it feels larger; it feels like something that could encompass her. Riko is like snow, disappearing as she grabs hold of Satsuki, becoming a different person, changing in the months in which the air is warm and the ground is soft and she does things, becomes things.   
  
But long as it is, it’s too short to dwell on unhappy things when they’re together, when Satsuki is conscious of herself, aware of her surroundings (Riko had asked her if she dreamed while she was wherever she goes; Satsuki had laughed and said only of Riko but it had been dodging the questions more than anything else; the truth is she doesn’t know whether she thinks or not, dreams or not, if she even exists before the first frost). The sky is permanently grey this season but the sun is its backlight, the few hours a day it comes out; they go out in the darkness between blizzards, when the clouds are grey but the snow seems to shine, Satsuki in a sundress and RIko bundled up, her breath freezing in the air (Riko always says with such wonder in her voice that Satsuki’s breath is cold).   
  
They share a bed, under the blankets that Satsuki doesn’t need to feel comfortable, but she won’t melt. She’ll crystalize, huddled around Riko, her body artificially warm like a reptile sitting on a rock in the sun, and they’ll both wake up sweating under the heavy furs. The days blur into each other and Satsuki thinks that perhaps if she pretends a little bit harder, she can imagine this winter as eternal, nothing changing. But the equinox approaches; the sun stays higher in the sky, fast approaching days that go too long. Soon, she will be gone again; like every year she hopes Riko will be there when she returns.


	177. akashi & rakuzan, vampires au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this gets kinda graphic with the blood

They’ve just drunk down Shutoku, strong vampire veins let out to pour blood in their glasses. They’ve been taken away, to a secure place; they’ll know what’s happened when they feel the punctures on their neck. But Rakuzan has won this right for their clan, played within the rules for it (they wouldn’t lose; they wouldn’t submit; their leader is too strong).  
  
Akashi’s ascendance has been called meteoric, but it’s not really that he rose. He was at the top from the beginning, great and fierce, fangs not bared but carrying with him persuasion, one eye the color of fresh human blood, spilling out of a wound. He is always hungry; he has taken the blood from the rest of the clan as they have offered it, fangs straight in veins where he can get them, eyes glowing with the power he tastes. They are all powerful in their own ways, all together, and in this world the rich get richer. They defeat the other clans, drink their blood, become more powerful, and it happens over again. They do not gloat in their victory; they only ever take single glasses of blood, one for each of them.  
  
For Akashi it is Midorima’s, a former clan mate, blood familiar and thick in his throat. For Mayuzumi, it is Kimura’s, stronger and more solid than he. Nebuya has chosen Ootsubo, the leader who stands like a shield in front, unyielding; Mibuchi has taken from Takao’s darting figure and Hayama from Miyaji’s loudness momentarily silenced. They drink their blood down quietly, having kept it from clotting until now but the less fresh it becomes the less delicious it is, the more the power seeps away as if through a sieve.  
  
“I must propose a toast,” says Akashi, swirling the blood in his glass, an amusing imitation of humans with their wine if he does say it himself. “To our continued victory.”  
  
“To our continued victory,” they murmur, as if controlled by his strings.   
  
They all take sips, slowly at first, savoring the taste, not quite as rusty and metallic as human blood, fuller. Midorima’s blood hums on Akashi’s tongue like an electromagnet, almost; it’s always been like this but perhaps moreso now. He has been consolidating power, too; moving clans had been a wise decision.   
  
“Another,” says Mibuchi. “To Sei-chan’s leadership.”  
  
Akashi tilts his glass toward the other end of the table, as if in thanks and acknowledgement. Again, the glasses clink, echoing loudly across the dining room. This has been a fine meal indeed.


	178. aokuro, the road home

The road home is long, but perhaps that’s because it’s not a road at all. It’s a journey, laborious; Daiki’s got to set up everything with the person in charge of checking on his mail at the house in Cleveland, get his car checked in so he can leave it at home, clean out the arena (always longer after an end to the season that comes too early, an unwelcome result; it feels as if all effort’s been lost). He’s got to book a flight that takes him home, to Tetsu; he’s got to call Tetsu and of course he has work and can’t be at the airport after the indirect two-transfer flight path from hell (and Daiki’s used to getting shitty flights from place to place, long across the country, though those are less frequent considering how close to the middle they play). But what’s a few more hours when the road’s this long, when it had started when he’d left Tokyo in September, and promised to return?  
  
It feels like for fucking ever when he lands in Narita, finally gets to step onto real ground; people all around him are yelling in Japanese and he needs to find his baggage and Tetsu’s still at work but fuck. He’s home; it hits him all over again like a rock to the gut in the best kind of way and he almost wants to cry, but he’s not going to do that (he can see the headlines now, two-time NBA MVP crying in the middle of the airport—jilted by lover? Still hung up on disappointing playoff run?) so he heads for the baggage claim.  
  
Daiki almost falls asleep in the cab; he jolts to sort of awake when the cabbie slams the brakes hard and they arrive at Tetsu’s building, quiet and unassuming and out of the way, a facade like Tetsu’s. Daiki pays the driver, who all of a sudden recognizes him, but at least he doesn’t want an autograph and lets Daiki go without a hassle.  
  
Daiki wakes up in Tetsu’s bed with Tetsu peering at him eyes bright in the dark.  
  
“I’m home,” Daiki says, and God, his mouth is so fucking dry.  
  
“Welcome home,” says Tetsu. “Do you need a glass of water?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
He drinks it looking Tetsu up and down, everything he’s missed; it’s still in his hand and spilling when he brings Tetsu in for a hug, breathes him in and kisses his neck. This is worth the journey, a hundred times over.


	179. akamido, kingdom

Like a foolish king on a solitary throne, ignoring his advisors in order to exercise his will, a show of dominance and power, Akashi had fucked things up with Midorima, big time. It’s like he had captured all of Midorima’s pieces in Shogi, demolished him by demolishing himself, demolishing the bonds between them so carelessly. He can blame his other self all he wants, but that person is him, too; every side of him is responsible for the monstrosity of being alone. There was always Midorima, always looking for approval and affection, always countering Akashi, almost equalling him, the determination to some day meet that peak in his mind, in his eyes, in a way that Akashi had almost wanted to happen. And then Midorima was gone from his life, his eyes hard, his mind made up that they could not be like this, that everything was wrong. Which of course, it had been.  
  
What’s the use of a king without a subject, without a person to rule by his side, share the burden and the pride of all of this? What’s the use of ruling if there is no one there to show it to? If he wants Midorima back, it’s going to take a lot more than just wanting and wishing; Akashi can get many things with a flick of his hand but Midorima is not that easy. For Midorima, Akashi will have to swallow his pride and ask, not knowing what the answer will be. A risk he hates taking, but a risk he will take; the payoff is too important to just leave it be and let this pass.   
  
They play shogi together sometimes, again, at small cafes or in Midorima’s house when his parents are at work and his sister is busy with something else, when it’s just the two of them in the living room. It’s al so familiar, just as it had been when Akashi had come over more regularly, the piano in one corner and the plus sofas arranged just so, the television, large and flat on its immaculately-dusted stand. The coffee table over which they sit, Midorima leaning because he has to, still hardly slumped. He loses again, but it’s another good effort, and Akashi smiles.  
  
“Midorima. Do you like me?”  
  
“I…yes,” says Midorima, uncertain of the specificity.  
  
“Would you go out with me? Or at least consider it?”  
  
One breath, two, Midorima’s brilliant eyes locked on Akashi’s.  
  
“Yes. I would go out with you.”  
  
Risk, reward, their kingdom is a bounty for the taking. Midorima reaches for Akashi’s hand; his taping is rough in the same way Akashi remembers it to be.


	180. kikasa, the sounds of us

Their time together has been decorated by music, the traditional kind, the tunes on the radio that fade into the background while they quarrel over dinner, the sound of cheers on a basketball court, a kind of music all its own (the rhythm of the ball on the hardwood, on the asphalt of a street court, dribble-dribble-pass, the smack as it hits the flesh of a set of hands). There is Kise’s voice and Kasamatsu’s guitar, petering in and out, hobbies that they pick up and let go, relearning the things they forget, Kasamatsu trying to show Kise a few chords and Kise singing simple scales or a song from ten years ago stuck in his head when it won't just get out (or the latest jingle for the commercial he’s acting in).   
  
There’s Kasamatsu’s cell phone ringtone, set to a novelty tune; he’s not good enough with technology or patient enough to figure out which of the thousands of settings menus changes this; eery time he hears it he’s a little bit less embarrassed. Kise always grins at him out of the corner of his eye, always amused and still not yet bored of it (a minor miracle, considering that it’s, well, Kise). There’s the song Kise used to hum under his breath while he studied, until he’d become completely distracted by the melody and no longer paying attention to the subjects he’d never tried to learn in the first place (his charm only got him so far in school, although it did get him to a degree—but Kasamatsu’s going to be as harsh and strict as he wants to here, because the least Kise could have done was try a litte harder, put in just a bit of effort).  
  
There’s the sounds of Kasamatsu’s roommate getting up early, running the blender and banging all of the cabinets, there’s the annoying flock of birds on the tree outside who won’t let them sleep in on the weekends, the sounds of now, right now, this time and place. Sometimes Kasamatsu thinks about the song that had played the first time they'd kissed (none of that cheesy shit where it had played in his head; he’d had one earbud in and was listening to some instrumental hip hop thing when Kise had leaned over and kissed him, tired and sloppy, on the bus back from a tournament when everyone else had been asleep).


	181. takamido, settled in

The ground has settled between them. They’ve been growing closer for a while, twin stems so used to being pruned back by themselves, by each other, Mdiorima on the higher ground eyes ascendant, Takao on the lower ground, seeing everything from above but still not meeting at eye level (and, well, if this is the same metaphorical ground Midorima still towers over him but Takao’s okay with that; it makes no difference to their feet). It is not Takao taking Midorima’s requests and using them for his own purposes, subverting the situation, it is everything out in the open.  
  
Either way, after the Rakuzan match (well, there’s no way they could have won, but in the even t that they had; that’s always a possibility) things would have opened up and spilled over, surpassed the dunes between them, the water washing away the sand and leaving the two of them on the shoreline, wet all over. Like this they’re scarred all over (Takao has had very little sympathy for the implosion of Teikou and its effect on Midorima, must be nice if your biggest problem is being lonely at the top, but seeing Akashi and everything like this he almost kind of gets it a little more—and, of course, there’s that game so long ago, Takao against Midorima, the despair pressing down on his head worse than a migraine), new wounds healing crooked and raised on their bodies, the exhaustion and the need to triumph, the fact the Seirin (Seirin!) had won instead, gotten there first (Takao fucking knows how to hold a grudge; he’s held many for longer than this over pettier things than basketball).  
  
It is their surfaces that catch each other’s attention, across the lunch table, across the classroom, across the court. It is their scars that fall in love, raising and binding to each other like vines twining together on the stems in spirals, so tight and tangled it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends, where the motion is Takao’s pass or Midorima’s shot (Shutoku’s light and shadow, Takao’s heard, except he’s not sure who’s supposed to be the light and who’s supposed to be the shadow; they’re both on a continuum of daybreak, an eclipse that’s light and shadow at once). It is their scars that bind them, shared pain that runs deep, the subjects they avoid but then talk about freely, scratch the wounds once they have healed, once what peels away is only dead skin, shed like the images they once had had of each other.


	182. imahana, merman!makoto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor grossness and injury

Shouichi fishes off the dock every day. Sometimes he catches fish, enough to eat or enough to sell; sometimes he catches none and haggles someone in the market down by annoying them until he’s got a decent price for a meal. Sometimes, he almost catches fish but the merfolk steal them, webbed hands waving out of the water after Shouichi begins to reel in, to mark their victories clearly. They’re awfully petty, and they come awfully close for those who say they don't like humans, but who is Shouichi to judge?  
  
He catches a merman once; the weight is too heavy to be a fish and he can’t reel it in; he feels as if the line is going to snap his rod in two. The merman bobs to the surface, angry; his lip is bleeding and Shouichi’s not quite sure how stupid the merman would have to be in order to fall for something easy like this.  
  
“You almost hooked my eye!”  
  
“You ate my bait,” says Shouichi. “Need help getting the hook out?”  
  
The merman spits blood at him; Shouichi ducks and beckons for him to come closer.  
  
“You come closer.”  
  
“And fall in?”  
  
The merman sighs; Shouichi yanks the hook.  
  
“That fucking hurt! What the fuck?”  
  
“I reckon you ought to be careful around here. Some of the fishermen aren’t as nice as me.”  
  
“Like hell you’re nice,” says the merman, and flips him the bird before departing.   
  
At least he’d been cute, even if he’d probably scared all the fish away with his loud voice.  
  
The merman comes back, though; Shouichi eventually finds out his name is Makoto and he’s pretty lonely, even if he doesn’t say as much. Despite Shouichi’s initial impression, he seems fairly bright; he dislikes other merfolk and calls them stupid (perhaps the reason for his loneliness, if he acted sweeter despite feeling a certain way it might work). The wound on his lip heals; there’s a small scar but it becomes almost invisible when Makoto pouts, which is often. He must have been spoiled, told he had a shiny tail or some nonsense; then again those proverbial stereotypes are often far from the truth and it doesn’t matter, really.   
  
“Come kiss me,” Shouichi says, to see if Makoto will, to see if he’ll sit himself up on the dock.  
  
“You want me to get splinters in my tail,” says Makoto.  
  
“Oh, you can’t climb up?”  
  
The goading somehow works (Makoto’s too easy sometimes, smart but surprisingly simple) and Makoto tastes of salt and fresh fish, oysters served over ice.


	183. nijihai, immortal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haizaki dies a lot

The first time Haizaki dies he doesn’t remember how; all he knows afterwards is what they tell him, that he’d fallen down and his heart had stopped. But that all of a sudden he’d come back. It’s only a few of them, Nijimura and the older kids who’d let him hang around, and most of them dissipate, figure that it must have been some mistake and that his pulse had been there the whole time and he’s just fainted because he was dehydrated or something. An easy explanation, even if it’s not the right one, but people go with heuristics that make sense to their categories, and Haizaki never has. He’s used to it.  
  
“Yeah, I died,” says Haizaki.   
  
“Shit," says Nijimura and hugs him.  
  
It’s kind of weird for someone like Nijimura who’s always so tough on him, flicking his forehead and telling him to do better, to hug him like this but his arms feel nice. Warm. (It’s hot out already; Haizaki’s not going to go there.)  
  
*  
  
Maybe he should have stayed dead; maybe then Nijimura would have mourned him, thought of him fondly. Probably the only reason he’d hugged Haizaki was that seeing him die and come back had upended his normal worldview or some shit, erasing the effect. Either way, he leaves; he lets Haizaki get kicked off the team.  
  
Haizaki dies a lot. He never tries; who the fuck knows when he’s not going to come back? That’s got to happen eventually, right? He gets pushed in front of a train, another heart failure (or whatever that had been) when he’s lying in bed, and one when he’s waiting to play streetball. He always wakes up alone, garbage in his face on the train tracks or morning too soon in his bed, thinking oh, this again? Maybe he should try to kill himself; maybe this is the universe nudging him toward that. But fuck the universe and what it wants; it’s never done what Haizaki wants it to do.  
  
*  
  
He dies in front of Nijimura again, keeled over by a sudden constriction of his body, and then it fades away to the blissful buzz of nothing. He wakes up again, head in Nijimura’s lap, Nijimura crying.  
  
“Shit, you’re alive again; is this like a thing you do?”  
  
His words are choked with attempted (and terribly failed) levity that Haizaki’s not really in the mood to appreciate. “Yeah.”  
  
“Oh. I’m sorry.”   
  
He’s holding Haizaki’s hand; Haizaki’s got no idea why he’s here again, how he’d seemed to disappear and come back, all of a sudden. But who gives a shit? It’ll come up, or they’ll never see each other again, but right now Nijimura seems to want him here.


	184. aokaga, postbreakup

They broke up. It’s as simple as that, as complicated as that. It had played out like they always do in fiction, the strain taking its toll and neither of them addressing it, ignoring it because they could, whispering sweet words at each other until they became cloying and meaningless, having sex to distract themselves from each other. They had let the distance fester, grow up between them too wild, hadn’t bothered to tame it and tape it back, and now they can’t see or hear each other, choked by the wild plants whenever they try to reach each other. Though they’d stopped trying that long before the breakup, hadn’t they?  
  
Aomine had read the script; it wasn’t Taiga it was him (it was both of them) and he wants Taiga to be happy (which is true, but he wants to be happy, too) and that it just isn’t working anymore. There is no simplistic explanation like that, a luddite inspecting an unplugged computer and claiming it just doesn’t work, like magic, a black box, witchcraft. There are so many reasons, so many tangled fibrous roots to the problems, it just makes it easier to give an explanation like that, even if it’s not true.  
  
Kagami had argued that they should have given it another go, and Aomine’s stubborn but this is fucking ridiculous. Where would they go with this? What do they have left to go on? Basically nothing, attraction and a shell of a relationship that's cracking at the seems. So it had ended more badly than Aomine had hoped it would, but there was no good end possible.   
  
They play each other now, eyes hard across the court; they see each other at official functions and Kagami’s never looked better in a three-piece suit, no one on his arm. He stares at Aomine sitting across the bar, raises his glass. Aomine raises his glass back and leaves a hundred and fifty percent tip for the bartender under his halfway finished drink. He needs air; he needs to get away from Kagami; he’s not going to go down the same path and make the same mistakes he knows would get them all over again, the distance and neglect and stubbornness wrapped up in thorns. He goes back up to his hotel room; there’s a lovely view of the city before he shuts the shades, turns the lights down low. He’s only got his hand and some premium cable tonight, but that’s better than thinking about Kagami, lips wet with whiskey, eyes glowing under the bar lights.


	185. kagaaka, poker au

People are so easy that this feels almost like cheating, stepping into a casino dressed up in what’s closer to their tenth-best than their third-best but still better than most of these people will ever be able to afford. Three-piece suits, silk ties, diamond cufflinks, designer watches; they stink of money and everyone here thinks they’re a shark. Taiga’s hand is warm on Seijuurou’s shoulder, careful not to wrinkle the fabric on his suit jacket.  
  
“Shall we?”  
  
Seijuurou nods; the question is always rhetorical but he always confirms it. They stroll by slot machines, card tables, dealers trying to size them up, Taiga waiving off a few people who keep hassling them to join their games. They’re looking for something a little higher stakes, people with teeth they can file down as easily as a few hands. They’re always toward the center, always that full of themselves, stealing from the rich (the foolish rich; those who go willingly into this situation; Akashi begrudges neither side). Taiga inclines his head, and Seijuurou walks over.  
  
“Gentlemen, may we join?”  
  
“Certainly.”  
  
There it is, the smile like a flash of lightning, the willingness to take on two of them at once, their own odds lowered.  
  
“Winner take all?” says Taiga.  
  
He’s got an air about him, something that reminds Seijuurou a bit of his father, of someone who was born into money but doesn’t necessarily feel the need to show it off, even when he is. It’s more honest than his father’s air, at any rate, Seijuurou thinks, but now isn’t the time to be bitter or think about his own pseudo-complexes. The other men laugh and agree, as if they can’t believe their luck. Everything from two rich kids.   
  
Of course, Seijuurou draws a good hand; Taiga folds out third and Seijuurou waits to show his hand until the chips in the pot are worth nearly as much as he’d brought in cash, stacks of bills in his own pockets and in Taiga’s, not plentiful enough to show through. Seijuurou has the edge, not by much, but by enough. Four eights versus four fives, a perfect takedown.   
  
“You got lucky, Kid.”  
  
“Did I?” says Akashi.  
  
“Seijuurou,” says Taiga, but his voice is full of more fondness than warning.   
  
“I believe we’re owed our prizes,” says Seijuurou.  
  
They don’t pay out easy but they do in the end, bills that feel real enough to Seijuurou’s fingers. He tucks the last stack in Taiga’s belt in the men’s room, smiling at Taiga’s half-grimace.  
  
“Makes me feel like a fucking stripper.”  
  
Seijuurou looks up at him until Taiga sighs and bends down for the kiss.  
  
“Nice win.”


End file.
